STORK'S  NEST 


In  the  orchard,  surrounded  by  the  angry  chickens,  stood  a  girl. 


STORK'S   NEST 


BY 

J.  BRECKENRIDGE  ELLIS 


Illustrated  By 
ELIZABETH  INGHAM 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,   YARD   &   COMPANY 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


Published  October,  1905 


TO   MY  MOTHER  AND  FATHER 

I  cannot  call  this  tale  mine  own 

For  it  is  yours  as  well. 
Its  every  smile  has  sweeter  grown 

That  for  a  moment  it  did  dwell 
Deep  in  your  eyes  so  true. 

And  if  in  all  there  were  a  tear, 
I  saw  the  rainbow  in  its  sphere 

Because  your  love  shone  through. 


M513160 


CONTENTS 


I    THE  GHOST 1 

II    THE  LOG  CABIN 15 

,     III    "UNCLE  Hi" 27 

IV  Two  WAYS  TO  BECOME  A  "PERSON"    ....  39 

V    ON  THE  FLOATING  TREE 76 

VI    IN  THE  FLOATING  HOUSE 96 

VII    EMMY  TRIES  THE  LONG  ROAD       Ill 

VIII    A  CATALPA  LEAF 130 

IX    STORK'S  NEST 146 

X    A  STRANGE  BURGLAR 170 

XI  JIM  WHITLICKS  "EXPECTS  THE  WORST"    .     .     .  178 

XII    DOES  "EMMY"  CARE 201 

XIII  AT  THE  MERCY  OF  'BijE 210 

XIV  "EMMY"  CHOOSES  THE  SHORT  WAY      ....  228 
XV   BROOM  CORN 238 

XVI    "WEARING  OUT  ALL  OVER" 252 

XVII    UNCLE  Hi's  LAST  CHARGE .277 

XVIII    'BijE's  PLOTS 290 

XIX    GATHERING  IN  THE  NET 310 

XX  BENTON  ENCOUNTERS  "THE  GHOST"     ....  328 

XXI  THE  STAMPEDE  AT  THE  QUICKSANDS  .....  342 

XXII    PURSUIT 354 

XXIII    BREAKING  THE  NEWS 367 

vii 


STORK'S     NEST 


THE    GHOST 

ONE  evening,  in  the  early  part  of  August, 
the  declining  sun  discovered  a  young 
man  hesitating  at  the  margin  of  a  somber 
wood  in  northern  Missouri.  Behind  him  was 
the  white  glare  of  the  narrow,  stony  road,  five 
miles  of  which  his  weary  feet  had  traversed  since 
midday.  It  turned  sharply  away  from  the 
threatening  front  of  matted  thickets  and  trees, 
as  if  afraid  of  the  gloom,  and  fled  to  the  right. 
There  was  a  gap  in  the  fence  where  the  bars  had 
been  left  down  so  long  that  grass  had  grown  over 
the  ends  resting  upon  the  ground. 

"  Here  is  where  I  turn  off  from  the  main  road," 
said  the  young  man  ruefully.  c  That  path  in  the 
woods  looks  so  lonesome  I  feel  sorry  for  it!  " 

As  he  entered  the  cool  shadows,  an  oppressive 
loneliness  smote  upon  his  spirits.  The  vastness 
of  the  unbroken  wood  seemed  to  take  his  breath 
away.  If  he  had  felt  before  that  he  had  entered 
a  strange  country,  peopled  by  men  and  women  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  his  experience,  this  feeling 
was  exaggerated  by  the  very  color  of  the  earth. 


2  STORK'S    NEST 

Not  only  was  the  country  strange;  it  was  one 
which  he  believed  he  could  never  grow  to  like. 
Its  roughness,  its  wildness,  repelled  him.  He 
had  still  a  long  way  to  go,  and  his  hesitation  at 
the  gap  had  been  conquered  by  the  fear  of  dark- 
ness overtaking  him  in  the  forest.  That  fear 
now  urged  him  along  the  grass-grown  way,  while 
his  small  valise  seemed  to  become  heavier  at  every 
step. 

Benton  Cabot  was  about  nineteen,  but  his 
smooth-shaven,  refined  face  wore  almost  a  boyish 
look,  while  in  his  eyes  lingered  something  of  the 
frank  innocence  of  youth.  He  was  tall,  but 
spare,  without  that  sinewy  development  which 
often  compensates  for  leanness.  The  paleness  of 
his  cheeks  spoke,  if  not  of  uncertain  health,  at 
least  of  a  life  passed  in  the  unhealthful  shadow  of 
confining  walls.  There  was,  moreover,  a  thought- 
ful repose  of  the  mouth  which  indicated  the 
student.  The  heaviness  of  his  step  and  the  irreg- 
ularity of  his  breathing  showed  him  unused  to 
long-continued  or  violent  exertion.  In  spite  of 
physical  disadvantages  his  features  possessed,  in 
their  way,  an  expression  of  power;  it  was  the  spirit 
of  resolution  which  had  not  failed  him  in  sorrow 
and  poverty  and  which  now  seemed  to  challenge 
the  very  grimness  of  the  wood. 

He  began  to  whistle,  but  the  silent  and  un- 
familiar scene  soon  cast  a  spell  upon  the  pucker 
of  his  lips.  He  found  himself  for  the  hundredth 


THE    GHOST  3 

time  wondering  if  the  family  with  which  he  was 
to  live  was  composed  of  uncultured  people  such 
as  he  had  viewed  from  the  car  window.  The  fact 
that  Silas  Stork  had  been  his  father's  war  comrade 
many  years  ago  told  nothing  as  to  his  mental 
qualities;  but  his  letters  had  shown  a  suavity,  a 
copious  supply  of  synonyms,  and  a  contemptuous 
daring  in  the  matter  of  spelling,  which  had  won 
the  young  man's  heart.  He  had  engaged  himself 
to  his  father's  old  friend  as  a  farm-hand,  hoping 
by  open-air  work  to  regain  the  strength  which 
study  and  confinement  were  threatening  to  under- 
mine. 

The  young  man  had  proceeded  some  distance 
along  the  wooded  path  before  his  ear  detected  an 
approaching  footstep.  Someone  was  making  his 
way  through  tangled  briers  toward  the  open  trail. 
It  was  impossible  at  first  not  to  experience  a  sense 
of  alarm,  as  if  the  desolate  waste  must  be  expected 
to  produce  a  Robin  Hood,  or  at  least  one  of  those 
Missouri  bandits  so  widely  known  to  fame  under 
a  less  poetic  name.  But  the  next  moment  he 
smiled  at  the  alarm  which  had  sprung  rather  from 
his  acquaintance  with  literature  than  from  his 
knowledge  of  the  visible  world. 

A  man  emerged  from  the  thicket  and  nodded 
briefly  to  the  pedestrian.  "  Howdy,  neighbor," 
he  said.  (He  spoke  in  a  gasping  sort  of  hoarse 
whisper,  as  if  he  had  his  real  voice  under  repair, 
and  were  using  a  poor  substitute,]  ^  <Wcl  <XW 


4  STORK'S    NEST 

"  Good-evening,"  said  the  other,  who  was  not 
pleased  by  the  man's  rude  appearance.  He  paused 
in  the  path  instinctively,  his  valise  hanging  heavy 
in  his  thin  white  hand. 

"  Coin'  my  way,  neighbor? "  inquired  the 
stranger.  "  I'm  bound  for  Si  Stork's  premises." 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Cabot,  becoming  almost 
pleased  at  the  encounter.  "  That  is  the  very  place 
I  am  hunting!  " 

The  stranger  coughed  violently,  and,  deep  down 
in  his  grating  throat,  remarked:  "Glad  to  hev 
comp'ny,  neighbor,  for  between  you  'n'  I,  I  get 
pow'ful  lonesome  an'  homesick  on  this  here  road. 
Them  trees  could  tell  a  tale,  Stranger,  in  these 
parts!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Benton,  secretly  regretting  the 
contrast  between  his  own  thin  form  and  the 
powerful  body  of  the  other.  "  My  home  is  about 
a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  here." 

The  hoarse  voice  grated:  "  Out  of  the  State, 
neighbor?  " 

"  No,  I'm  a  Missourian;  only  I'm  from  the  cen- 
tral part  of  the  State,  and  this  northern  country 
seems  like  a  different  land.  I'm  used  to  blue  grass 
everywhere,  even  along  the  wildest  roads,  running 
wild.  And  we  have  no  hills  such  as  I  have  found 
up  here;  all  is  rolling  prairie.  Our  woods  are 
growing  very  scarce." 

The  man  gasped  as  they  walked  along. 
"  People  up  here  are  differ'nt,  too,  neighbor.  I'm 


THE    GHOST  5 

like  you;  I  don't  live  here.  Nobody  could  n't 
hire  me  to.  This  here  north  country  jest  smells 
ill  to  my  nostrils." 

Benton  was  sorry  to  have  his  fears  of  the  neigh- 
borhood confirmed  by  these  words,  but  they 
seemed  to  bring  the  travelers  together  in  a  bond 
of  sympathy.  '  The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "  it's 
hardly  a  matter  of  choice  with  me.  I  studied 
pretty  hard  last  year,  and  then  I  went  into  a  store 
as  a  clerk.  I  have  come  up  here  to  get  strong,  on 
Mr.  Stork's  farm." 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  difficult  voice,  "  if  you've 
come  up  here  for  your  health,  that's  differ'nt. 
They's  more  health  up  here  than  they  is  gold  in 
Californy.  An'  the  healthiest  man  I  know  is 
Mr.  Stork." 

1  You  know  him,  then?  "  began  Benton,  eager 
to  elicit  some  information  regarding  his  future 
employer. 

"Know  him?"  cried  his  companion.  "Well, 
I  should  say!  Why,  neighbor,  I  know  both  of 
him.  They  ain't  finer  men  on  Grand  River  than 
them  twins.  They  is  honest  as  the  day  is  long  on 
the  twenty-fust  of  June."  It  was  apparently  such 
an  effort  to  the  man  to  converse  that  he  was  obliged 
to  squeeze  his  lungs  hard  to  wring  out  his  words. 
Benton  began  to  feel  sorry  for  him,  and  therefore 
warmed  toward  him  a  little  more. 

" 1  didn't  know  there  was  more  than  one  Mr. 
Stork,"  he  said  in  cheery  confidence.  "  When  my 


6  STORK'S    NEST 

father  died  I  was  left  without  any  kin,  at  least 
kin  who  were  interested  in  me.  For  I  didn't  have 
anything,  not  even  enough  to  keep  me  in  school. 
But  my  guardian  helped  me  along.  When  school 
was  out,  in  June,  I  got  a  job  as  clerk  in  a  dry- 
goods  store,  but  my  town  is  small  and  so  are  the 
wages.  And  I  was  n't  strong.  I  want  a  place 
where  I  can  make  more  and  grow  tough."  He 
looked  down  and  smiled  ruefully  at  his  long,  thin 
legs.  "  Somehow  or  other,  Mr.  Silas  Stork  heard 
of  me.  He  fought  in  the  war  with  my  father,  but 
I  have  never  seen  him.  He  wrote,  offering  a  place 
on  his  farm  up  here — board,  and  good  wages, 
besides.  I  don't  know  how  he  happened  to  know  I 
was  longing  for  just  such  a  place.  I'm  indebted 
to  my  guardian,  and  I  have  this  chance  to  even  up 
the  money  account.  Of  course,  his  kindness — that 
can't  be  balanced." 

"  It  '11  be  an  eddication  to  you  to  live  with  Si 
Stork,"  observed  the  stranger.  "  It  '11  be  like 
feedin'  at  the  same  table  with  a  summer 
universary." 

Benton  gave  the  other  a  sharp  scrutiny,  fancy- 
ing he  detected  a  trace  of  humor  in  these  words, 
but  the  heavily  whiskered  face  told  no  tales.  Both 
lapsed  into  silence  and,  from  time  to  time,  Benton 
slyly  studied  his  companion.  Tall  and  robust,  he 
trod  the  earth  with  a  heavy  step.  He  was  dressed 
in  blue  trousers  and  a  black  shirt  over  which  white 
suspenders  crossed  themselves  conspicuously.  On 


THE    GHOST  7 

his  head  was  a  small  white  cap,  and  upon  his  feet 
heavy  boots  which  came  high  up  the  legs.  One  of 
them  showed  a  deep  gash  down  the  side,  as  from 
an  ax.  His  beard  was  red,  and  very  heavy.  His 
hair  was  so  bushy  and  unconfined  that  it  reminded 
Benton  of  a  billowing  stream  at  sunset,  with  the 
white  cap  as  a  little  sail-boat,  tossing  upon  its 
reddened  bosom.  The  hair  hung  over  his  fore- 
head as  well,  almost  hiding  his  eyes,  while  riotous 
whiskers  ran  up  to  meet  it. 

After  a  long  silence  the  man  cleared  his  throat 
and  gasped:  "  Yap,  neighbor,  I  git  pow'ful  lone- 
some on  this  here  road.  Say!  Skeered  of 
ghosts?  " 

Benton   laughed. 

"  Laugh  away,"  growled  the  man;  "but  the 
fust  time  you  see  Hezzie  Whitlicks  a-comin',  I  bid 
you  lay  low !  " 

"  Who  is  Hezzie  Whitlicks?  " 

"  Neighbor,  he's  the  ghost  in  question.  Ten 
year  ago,  Hezekiah  Whitlicks  died,  as  mean  a 
man  as  ever  done  it.  But  you  kin  see  him  yet,  ef 
you're  lucky,  from  time  to  time.  I  can't  say  he 
lives  in  no  purtic'ler  spot,  bein'  a  speret;  but  he  is 
to  be  saw,  as  anybody  in  these  parts  can  instruct 
you.  They  ain't  no  ghosts  down  south;  that's 
why  I  despise  this  here  north  country." 

The  other,  greatly  amused,  was  tempted  to 
humor  this  simple  child  of  nature.  He  was  the 
first  white  man  Benton  had  ever  heard  declare 


8  STORK'S    NEST 

faith  in  ghosts,  and  the  experience  was  rather 
interesting.  "  Where  I  come  from,"  he  said 
gravely,  "  ghosts  are  not  believed  in." 

"  I  did  n't  believe  in  'em  myself  when  I  fust 
come,"  said  the  other.  "  I  says  to  the  people, 
4  I'm  from  Mizzoury  and  you'll  hev  to  show  me !  ' 
And  they  done  it,  too.  But  everything  up  here's 
differ'nt  from  the  south.  Why,  jest  ridin'  on  the 
train,  you  must  of  saw  that." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Benton  good-naturedly.  Noth- 
ing so  readily  disposes  us  toward  an  expression  of 
kindliness  as  a  feeling  of  mental  superiority,  and 
the  young  man,  sorry  for  the  other's  benighted 
condition,  opened  his  heart  still  more.  "  The 
first  thing  that  struck  me  were  your  covered 
bridges  for  the  railroads,  as  if  you  thought 
the  trains  might  get  scared  and  jump  into  the 
creeks!" 

"  Don't  call  'em  my  bridges,"  remonstrated  the 
man.  "  I  despise  everything  in  this  section  except 
the  Storkses!  " 

"  Then  there  are  the  high  hills,"  continued  Ben- 
ton,  "  reminding  me  of  those  in  Kentucky — hills 
just  sitting  on  the  level  ground  so  you  can  see  all 
around  them.  And  the  people — well,  from  the 
car  window  I  saw  men  doing  the  washing  and 
hanging  out  the  clothes,  and  women  out  in  the 
gardens,  hoeing  and  spading.  And  some  of  those 
women  were  actually  barefoot  and  walking  out- 
doors barefoot!  " 


THE    GHOST  9 

"  Yap,"  said  the  other,  "  them  are  some  of  our 
natural  curiosities ;  barefooted  an'  barelegged,  too, 
you'll  find.  But  they  don't  make  an  ant-hill  beside 
the  Grand  River  ghost." 

The  scene  had  now  grown  wilder,  and  the  cool- 
ness which  Benton  had  experienced  on  first  enter- 
ing the  wood  seemed  to  have  been  consumed  in  a 
close,  intense  August  heat  which  steamed  from  the 
very  ground.  The  young  man  said:  "  There  are 
only  about  two  more  miles,  are  n't  there?" 

"  They're  mighty  long  miles,  then,"  was  the 
reply.  "  Neighbor,  it  is  at  this  spot  that  I  see 
Hezzie  Whitlicks  the  last  time  about  three  weeks 
ago." 

Benton  could  not  but  acknowledge  to  himself 
that  it  was  an  ideal  spot  for  seeing  a  ghost.  Four 
hills  had  drawn  together,  forming  a  cup,  and  the 
two  travelers  were  down  in  the  dregs.  On  all 
sides  tangled  walls  of  trees,  vines  and  thickets 
sloped  upward.  In  this  silent  depth  the  sunlight 
could  not  come  at  such  an  hour.  It  was  visible 
far  above,  quivering  in  the  dense  tree-tops. 

"  Now,  neighbor,"  said  the  man  hoarsely,  "  not 
to  deceive  you  no  longer,  I  hope  you  carry  a  pistol, 
for  sich  we  need  in  this  ghost-ridden  quarter 


section." 


"  No,  indeed,"  said  Benton  with  an  amused 
smile,  "  I  do  not  carry  pistols." 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  the  man,  "  an'  if  you  will 
excuse  me — beggin'  your  pardon — I'll  draw  it, 


io  STORK'S    NEST 

now.  An'  not  to  deceive  you  no  longer,  /  am 
Hezzie  Whitlicks;  /  am  the  ghost!" 

The  man's  countenance  was  so  concealed  by  his 
overflowing  hair  and  swollen  beard  that  the  young 
man  could  not  tell  whether  he  spoke  in  jest  or 
earnest.  The  pistol,  however,  had  a  sober,  busi- 
ness-like air.  Benton  was  alarmed,  but  he  was 
not  a  coward.  He  said  with  a  smile,  which,  in 
truth,  was  rather  forced,  "  You  look  pretty  solid 
•for  a  ghost." 

"  You  might  as  well  learn  now,  neighbor,  that 
Grand  River  people  an'  Grand  River  ghosts  is 
differ'nt  from  them  raised  on  blue-grass.  Hezzie 
Whitlicks  always  does  look  solid.  An'  if  you 
don't  do  exactly  as  I  say,  he'll  feel  to  you  pretty 
solid,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  prophesy." 

"  At  present  I  am  in  your  power,"  said  the 
young  man  steadily,  "  so  I  suppose  I  must  do  as 
you  order." 

"  Now  you're  actin'  a  sensible  part,  neighbor, 
an'  as  long  as  you  keep  to  your  part,  this  show 
will  go  along  without  a  hitch  till  the  curtain  is1 
rang  down.  Now,  you  sit  down  on  this  nice,  quiet, 
mossy  log  with  your  back  to  me  an'  don't  you  look 
around  at  me  once.  Mind  that.  You  be  respon- 
sible not  to  look  around  once,  for  I'll  be 
responsible  that  you  don't  look  twice.  All  I  am 
goin'  to  do  is  to  examine  that  there  balise  of 
yourn,  if  you  will  excuse  me." 

The  ghost  here  coughed  very  hard  as  if  he  had 


THE    GHOST  n 

forgotten  that  part  of  his  role,  and  was  making 
up  for  lost  time. 

In  spite  of  the  stranger's  tone  of  grave  polite- 
ness there  was  a  serious  undercurrent  to  his  bad- 
inage which  warned  the  other  to  attempt  no 
resistance.  Benton  Cabot  had  no  choice  but  to 
seat  himself  upon  the  log,  with  his  back  to  Hezzie 
Whitlicks.  Like  most  young  men  of  a  romantic 
turn  of  mind,  he  had  often  pictured  himself  in 
scenes  of  danger.  Now,  as  he  stared  up  the 
wooded  slope  and  listened  to  the  ghostly  fingers 
delving  into  his  property,  a  smile  trembled  upon 
his  finely  cut  lips.  How  unheroic  his  situation! 

"  Nice,  mossy  log,"  came  the  voice  from  behind 
him.  "  Comfortable?  Stiddy,  thar!  If  you  turn 
once,  you'll  never  turn  ag'in.  I  could  put  you  to 
sleep  with  a  incantation,  but  I'm  too  hoarse  to 
sing  any  to-day,  and  the  pullin'  of  a  trigger  is 
easy,  anyhow." 

"  You  might  skip  the  high  notes,"  Benton 
ventured. 

u  What  do  I  see?  "  the  ghost  communed  with 
himself.  "  A  something  white,  in  a  roll.  Mortal, 
what  on  airth  is  this  here  roll?" 

"  A  nightgown,"  said  Benton,  disposed  to 
humor  the  dangerous  thief  in  the  slightest  de- 
tail. 

"  Oh,  what  a  shroud  it  Vd  make !  "  cried  the 
other  approvingly.  "  What  a  shroud  for  some 
fair  young  corpse,  neighbor!  A  nightgown,  you 


12  STORK'S   NEST 

say  ?  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  see  one  before.  I  may 
have.  An'  here  is  a  volume — hum! — a  Bible." 
There  was  a  pause,  as  if  the  Bible  had  proved  too 
much  for  the  ghost.  Then  the  rasped  voice  came 
again :  "  Hair-brush !  An'  this  here  is  a  comb, 
most  likely.  Money!  How  it  jingles !  Three — 
five — what!  a  ten-dollar  bill?  Fifteen  dollars  and 
thirty-five  cents.  Wealth!  What  a  pity  ghosts 
can't  use  money.  But  what  do  I  need  it  for?  I 
don't  eat  nothin'  but  dew,  nor  wear  nothin'  but 
what  I  was  buried  in — barrin'  the  cap.  Neighbor, 
I'll  hev  to  search  your  pockets,  I  have  n't  found 
nothin'  to  my  taste.  Now  don't  you  move  or  look 
around?  What  are  you  jumpin'  for?  This  cold 
thing  I've  ran  down  your  neck  ain't  nothin'  but 
my  gun.  If  it  was  to  make  a  ghost  of  you,  what 
larks  you  'n'  me  could  have  together !  " 

Benton  sat  like  a  statue  while  his  pockets  were 
being  rifled.  Everything  was  taken.  At  last  the 
ghost  left  the  disconsolate  figure  and  returned  to 
the  valise. 

"  Now  don't  look  around,  neighbor,  but  answer 
me;  did  you  leave  your  trunk  at  Laclede  Station?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  I  suppose  it  contains  your  real  valuables?" 
*  You  have  all  my  valuables  there,"  said  Ben- 
ton  quietly;  "  my  watch  and  money.  In  the  trunk 
are  clothes  too  small  for  you  to  wear,  even  if 
Hezzie  Whitlicks  wore  anything  but  his  grave- 
clothes.  There  is  nothing  else  in  my  trunk  but 


THE    GHOST  13 

old  papers,  a  few  keepsakes,  nothing  so  valuable 
as  the  old  trunk  itself." 

"  Jest  so,  neighbor,  clothes  an'  old  papers.  A 
ghost  has  no  use  for  sich.  But,  mercy  me! 
Listen  to  that." 

The  voice  was  so  agitated  that  Benton  felt  hope 
leap  up  within.  Perhaps  someone  was  coming  to 
his  rescue.  But  his  heart  soon  sank,  for  his  strain- 
ing ears  caught  nothing  but  the  far-away  melan- 
choly crowing  of  a  cock  which  seemed  to  accent 
the  stillness  instead  of  breaking  it. 

"  Neighbor,"  gasped  Hezzie  in  apparent 
horror,  "  do  you  hear  that?  " 

"  I  hear  nothing,"  Benton  returned. 

"What!  you  don't  hear  that  there  rooster?" 

Benton  deigned  no  reply. 

"  Yap,  neighbor !  That  there  rooster  is  my 
bugle-call.  When  I  hears  him  I  has  to  go  back 
into  my  old  coffin.  Not  in  the  cemet'ry;  no,  sir! 
You  see,  they  digged  me  up, — some  medical 
fraternity,  or  other,  I  suppose;  so  I  can't  rest. 
Good-by,  Benton  Cabot.  Oh,  I  know  your  name, 
trust  a  ghost  for  that!  Now,  I'm  a-fixin'  to  dis- 
appear right  through  the  ground;  an'  if  you  turn 
your  head,  I'll  make  you  disappear,  too.  So  don't 
turn  round,  neighbor,  or  you'll  think  there  was  a 
crowin'  after  your  speret." 

The  voice  ceased.  Did  Hezzie  Whitlicks 
vanish  into  the  earth?  Benton  did  not  turn  his 
head  to  learn,  but  he  fancied  he  heard  sounds  of 


14  STORK'S   NEST 

the  "  ghost  "  slipping  up  the  opposite  hill.  When 
he  ventured  to  leave  the  log  he  was  alone.  Upon 
the  ground  was  heaped  his  property.  At  one  side 
lay  the  watch,  with  the  ten-dollar  bill  as  a  cushion 
for  its  support.  The  silver  pieces  were  disposed 
in  a  circle  about  the  timepiece.  Benton  examined 
everything  before  replacing  them  in  his  valise  and 
pockets.  Nothing  was  missing.  If  he  had 
entered  the  wood  with  a  presentiment  of  evil,  he 
resumed  his  journey  with  a  still  heavier  heart. 
The  mysterious  Hezzie  Whitlicks  weighed  upon 
his  mind.  He  now  looked  about  him  oftener,  he 
was  more  sensitive  to  sudden  noises,  and  he  made 
no  attempt  to  whistle  as  he  held  on  his  solitary 
way. 


II 

THE     LOG    CABIN 

BEFORE  leaving  the  natural  cup  formed  by 
the  four  hills  in  whose  dregs  he  had  found 
himself  with  Hezzie  Whitlicks,  Benton 
secured  a  stout  oak  stick  for  his  protection.  He 
was  not  superstitious,  but  his  mind  was  quick  to 
profit  from  new  experiences,  and  he  thought  it 
not  improbable  that  he  might  encounter  another 
"  ghost  "  upon  the  way.  He  was  inclined  to  think 
Hezzie  some  wandering  madman,  sane  upon  all 
subjects  except  that  of  his  spiritual  condition.  No 
doubt  the  people  of  the  community  understood  his 
harmless  state,  pitied  his  singular  delusion,  and 
humored  him  therein.  Still,  no  madman  is  a 
pleasant  traveling  companion,  especially  when  he 
is  armed  with  pistols,  and  Benton  did  not  wish  to 
meet  his  acquaintance  again.  As  he  continued  on 
his  journey,  looking  apprehensively  from  side  to 
side,  he  pondered  over  the  recent  adventure.  It 
was  strange  that  Hezzie  should  have  known  his 
name. 

Could  the  great-whiskered  fellow  have  seen 
him  at  Laclede  Station  and  followed  with  some 
sinister  intent?  Might  he  not  have  accomplices 

15 


1 6  STORK'S    NEST 

even  now  lying  in  wait?  But  if  the  intention 
had  been  to  rob  him,  the  young  man  could 
not  understand  why  his  property  had  been  so 
scrupulously  left  behind  at  the  crowing  of  the 
cock.  Perhaps  the  next  ghost  he  should  meet 
would  not  only  take  his  money  and  watch,  but 
keep  them. 

"  It  was  surely  a  madman,"  Benton  concluded; 
"  his  actions,  his  very  words,  showed  the  vagaries 
of  a  diseased  mind."  As  he  trudged  along,  weary 
and  footsore,  the  path  grew  less  wild,  and  he 
imagined  it  began  to  assume  a  familiar  look.  In 
fact  it  was  familiar.  Hezzie  had  dexterously 
decoyed  the  young  man  from  the  true  way,  and 
had  conducted  him  in  a  circuit.  There  could  be 
no  mistaking  this  quiet  spot  in  the  wood  where 
four  footpaths  met  under  a  huge  hackberry.  He 
had  traversed  one  from  the  main  road;  another 
led  to  the  Stork  farm.  But  he  could  neither 
recognize  the  old  trail  nor  decide  upon  the  new. 
He  had  eyes  for  geometry,  Latin  and  Shakespere, 
and  even  for  calico,  hose  and  ribbon;  but  his  eyes 
for  trees,  rocks  and  directions  were  hardly  opened. 
Benton  Cabot  was  lost  in  the  wood,  about  six  miles 
from  Laclede  Station. 

Had  it  not  been  for  his  meeting  with  Hezzie, 
this  fact  would  not  have  alarmed  him  greatly.  He 
knew  there  were  no  extensive  forests  in  northern 
Missouri.  Whichever  path  he  took  must  finally 
bring  him  to  a  main  road  and  to  a  farm-house 


THE   LOG    CABIN  17 

where  he  could  inquire  his  way,  or,  if  need  be, 
pass  the  night. 

"  I  might  be  in  a  worse  situation,"  he  said  aloud, 
seating  himself  upon  a  rock  and  resting  the  valise 
upon  the  ground,  while  he  treated  himself  to  one 
of  those  jests  better  appreciated  by  others  than  by 
him  who  utters  it:  "  Many  a  fellow  has  to  make 
his  own  way,  but  here  I  find  four  already  made 
for  me !  " 

He  presented  a  picturesque  figure  in  the  lonely 
scene  as  he  scrutinized  one  path  after  the  other. 
The  sunlight,  with  a  friendly  touch,  rested  upon 
his  straight  black  hair  as  he  fanned  himself  with 
his  straw  hat.  As  the  hackberry  quivered  in  the 
breeze,  the  light  and  shadow  played  upon  the  high 
forehead,  the  sensitive  nostrils,  the  determined 
chin,  the  delicate  cheeks.  The  dark-brown  eyes 
finally  selected  the  footpath  running  toward  the 
southland,  having  taken  as  much  time  for  rest 
as  he  dared,  in  view  of  his  uncertain  situation,  he 
took  up  the  valise  and  resumed  his  journey. 

He  had  gone  perhaps  half  a  mile  when  the  path 
led  out  upon  a  country  road  composed  of  shelving 
rocks  of  such  a  decided  slant  it  seemed  almost 
impossible  that  a  buggy  could  traverse  it  without 
being  toppled  over  upon  its  side.  Along  the  lower 
edge  ran  a  deep  rut  showing  how  heavy  wagons, 
after  slipping  and  sliding  along  the  surface,  had 
caught  some  foothold  and  eaten  into  the  rock. 

"  No,"  said  Benton,  staring,  "  this  is  n't  it.    My 


1 8  STORK'S   NEST 

path  leads  to  a  ford  in  the  river,  with  stepping- 
stcnes.  I  must  be  three  miles  from  the  Storks's. 
Well,  I  must  get  somewhere.  Nothing  behind 
me  but  ghosts — nothing  in  front  but  a  stone  road 
turned  over  upon  its  edge  to  drain !  " 

He  left  the  wood  and  climbed  along  the  upper 
margin  of  the  thoroughfare.  Presently  his  eyes 
were  greeted  by  a  grateful  object.  "  A  barn!  >x 
he  exclaimed,  slipping  and  scrambling  along.  "  A 
barn !  Good !  I  hope  they'll  let  me  stay  all 
night."  It  was  a  barn,  with  a  small  window  of 
four  square  panes  in  its  loft.  An  old  horse  stood 
in  the  doorway  looking  at  Benton  with  disap- 
proval. 

Benton  passed  a  horse-lot  where  some  pigs  were 
rooting  up  the  last  spears  of  wire-grass,  and 
found  himself  opposite  a  small  patch  of  broom- 
corn,  tall  and  erect,  the  green  brushes  pointing  at 
the  zenith.  Beyond  the  patch  was  an  orchard  of 
trees  which  had  grown  venerable  in  service,  and 
which  showed  the  neglect  that  so  often  attends 
old  age.  The  back-yard  of  a  log  cabin  ran  down 
a  hill  to  the  orchard  fence,  and  stopped  abruptly 
there  in  a  tangle  of  smartweed,  crowfoot  and  bur- 
dock. The  yard-fence  was  without  a  gate,  but  a 
stile  block  with  steps  on  each  side,  and  several 
gaps,  where  other  steps  used  to  be,  offered  a  high- 
way to  the  yard  path.  This  path,  running  to  the 
front  door  and  thence  around  the  cabin  to  the 
rear,  was  composed  of  wood-ashes,  which  showed 


THE   LOG    CABIN  19 

a  tendency,  with  every  strong  breeze,  to  leave  the 
premises.  The  fence  was  the  usual  rail  fence  with 
clumps  of  weeds  in  the  vertex  of  each  angle.  A 
little  wire  grass  showed  itself  here  and  there,  but 
for  the  most  part  the  yard  was  given  over  to  plan- 
tains, which  thrust  their  impudent  seed-spears 
high  in  air  and  crowded  to  the  very  margin  of  the 
building. 

The  cabin  had  an  air  of  desertion,  but  there 
came  unmistakable  signs  of  life  from  the  orchard, 
and  Benton  paused  before  he  reached  the  fence. 
In  the  orchard  stood  a  weather-stained  ash  hopper, 
and,  not  far  from  it,  the  hen  house.  It  was  now 
surrounded  by  a  great  number  of  chickens,  each 
in  a  nervous  state,  bordering  upon  hysteria.  The 
fowls  were  not  afraid,  but  indignant.  They  flew 
upon  the  fence,  then  down  again,  then  up  in  the 
trees,  in  fact,  everywhere  except  upon  certain 
boards  and  stepping-planks  which  had  evidently 
been  placed  for  their  accommodation.  But  where- 
ever  they  flew,  cackling  in  their  shrillest  notes, 
they  refused  to  be  satisfied  and  immediately 
returned  to  their  former  posts,  where  they 
appeared  no  less  miserable. 

Benton,  convinced  that  no  one  was  at  home,  and 
persuaded  that  the  presence  of  some  weasel  or  fox 
was  the  cause  of  the  disturbance,  seized  his  stout 
oak  stick  in  a  tighter  grasp  and  cautiously  advanced 
to  the  fence!  Before  he  reached  it,  a  form 
appeared  from  around  the  hen  house.  Benton 


20  STORK'S   NEST 

paused  in  some  confusion.  In  the  orchard,  sur- 
rounded by  the  angry  chickens,  stood  a  girl  of 
about  sixteen,  tall  for  her  age,  and  much  rounder 
and  in  every  way  better  developed  than  the 
traveler.  She  was  a  beautiful  girl  with  dark  gray 
eyes.  Her  hair,  when  it  strayed  in  the  sunlight, 
appeared  as  light  gold  silk;  and  when  the  cool 
shadow  of  the  apple-tree  fell  upon  it  like  a  caress- 
ing hand,  it  grew  a  deeper,  richer  gold.  She  wore 
a  blue  calico  dress;  the  large  white  buttons  showed 
between  the  heavy  braids  that  hung  down  her 
back.  The  blue  sunbonnet  was  at  present  off 
duty,  and  clung  with  its  blue  strings  to  her  plump, 
firm  arm  which  was  bare  to  the  elbow.  The 
skirt  did  not  reach  far  below  her  knees.  Her 
ankles  and  feet  were  brown,  showing  themselves 
free  from  the  conventional  restraint  of  shoes  and 
stockings.  Her  arms  showed  the  same  healthy 
brown;  indeed,  her  whole  appearance  impressed 
the  observer  with  her  strength  and  fullness  of  life. 
Her  face  was  of  a  creamy  pinkness  which  exposure 
to  sun  and  wind  had  been  unable  to  blemish,  that 
rare  complexion  which  should  always  go  with 
golden  hair. 

Much  of  her  charm  was  lost  upon  Benton 
Cabot.  He  had  been  too  deeply  engrossed  by 
study  and  too  anxious  to  make  a  living  to  develop 
the  sentimental  part  of  his  nature.  He  realized 
that  the  girl  was  unusually  pretty,  but  he  had 
never  cared  for  pretty  girls;  and  the  fact  that  this 


THE   LOG    CABIN  21 

one  was  barefooted  when  she  was,  in  all  but  years, 
a  woman,  set  her  apart  from  his  approval.  She 
must  belong  to  that  unfamiliar  class  of  people  he 
had  viewed  from  his  car  window,  the  men  doing 
the  washing,  the  women  hoeing  and  spading.  The 
very  beauty  which  might  have  made  her  charming 
in  other  conditions  seemed  a  pathetic  underscor- 
ing to  her  impossibility.  On  the  other  hand,  she 
was  a  fellow-mortal,  to  say  the  least,  and  could  no 
doubt  direct  him  upon  his  way.  He  was  about  to 
ask  if  he  could  see  her  father,  when  she  called  out 
to  him: 

"  Hello,  Ben !  "  Without  waiting  for  him  to 
return  this  greeting,  she  hurried  forward,  crawled 
between  the  lower  two  rails  of  the  fence  and  held 
out  a  sunburnt  hand.  Benton  flushed  with  sur- 
prise at  the  recognition  and  at  the  contraction  of 
his  name.  How  could  it  be  that  the  very  ghosts 
and  farm  girls  knew  him?  Then  it  occurred  to 
him  that  he  might  have  been  mistaken  for  some- 
one else. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  drawing  back,  "  I  am 
afraid  you  have  made  a  mistake.  I  am  a'  stranger 
in  the  neighborhood."  He  disliked  her  manner 
of  crawling  through  fences  and  the  sturdy  way  in 
which  she  braced  herself  upon  her  feet;  but  the 
good-natured  smile  upon  her  healthy  face, 
although  it  jarred  upon  his  delicate,  sensitive 
organism,  which  study  and  confinement  had  ren- 
dered somewhat  morbid,  won  an  answering  smile. 


22  STORK'S   NEST 

"  You  hain't  no  stranger  to  me,"  she  said, 
pouncing  upon  his  hand  and  wringing  it  vigor- 
ously. "  I  know  yous,  Ben.  I'm  Emmy  Garrett. 
Did  yous  come  here  from  Si  Storks's?  " 

"  No,"  said  Benton,  rescuing  his  limp  fingers, 
"  I  have  lost  my  way;  I  happened  upon  this  place, 
and  hope  you  can  tell  me  how  to  reach  Mr.  Silas 
Stork's  farm.  My  name  is  Benton  Cabot." 

"  Yap,  I  know  it  air,"  said  the  other,  staring  at 
him  with  frank  interest,  and  then  examining  his 
clothing.  "  Si  Stork  told  us.  Yous  see,  all  the 
Storkses  has  went  off  on  a  week's  fish-fry,  twenty 
mile  from  here.  Si  an'  'Bije,  they  asked  gran'pop 
to  keep  yous  till  they  come  back  home.  Si  an' 
'Bije,  they  put  up  a  notice  ag'in  their  door,  so  if 
yous  went  thar,  it  'u'd  tell  yous  to  make  tracks 
for  this  here  place.  See?" 

"  But  I  wrote  Mr.  Silas  Stork  that  I  should 
come  to-day,"  said  Benton,  dismayed  at  the  pros- 
pect of  spending  a  week  at  the  log-cabin.  "  I 
did  n't  know  anything  about  this  'Bije.  I  suppose 
he's  the  twin  brother.  Mr.  Silas  promised  to 
meet  me  at  Laclede  Station;  but  he  did  n't  and 
I've  had  this  long  tramp;  and  yet,  he  knew  I  was 
coming!"  Benton  was  vexed. 

"  Yap,"  said- Emma,  "  but  jest  of  a  sudden  thar 
come  this  chance  of  a  fish-fry,  so  they  went  off, 
the  hull  kit  an'  boodle  of  'em,  an'  yous  are  to 
stay  the  hull  endurin'  week  with  me  'n'  gran'- 
pop." 


THE   LOG    CABIN  23 

Benton  walked  dejectedly  toward  the  stile- 
block. 

"  Yap,"  said  Emma,  keeping  beside  him,  and 
speaking  rather  absently.  She  had  finished  with 
his  clothing  and  was  now  examining  his  valise, 
necessarily  confined  to  its  exterior.  "  They  never 
done  the  like  before,"  she  said  presently.  "  The 
Storkses  hain't  by  natur'  the  kind  as  takes  holi- 
days, not  even  fish-frys.  But  seemed  they  went 
plumb  crazy  of  a  sudden  over  this  chance.  Well, 
they're  gone  now,  an'  not  a  livin'  soul  left  at 
their  place  excep'  the  cattle  an'  chickuns.  I  guess 
yous  would  n't  keer  to  go  thar  an'  be  numbered 
with  them.  I  guess  you'll  hev  to  put  up  with  us, 
as  they  hain't  no  hotels  closer  'n  Laclede  Station." 
She  gave  him  a  sidelong  look. 

"  Can  I  see  your  grandfather?  "  he  asked  after 
an  awkward  pause. 

Emma  Garrett  looked  up  at  the  sun  with  a 
knowing  twist  in  her  brow  and  replied:  "Yous 
kin  see  him  before  long,  I  calkerlate."  Benton 
made  no  reply.  She  strode  over  the  stile  block 
and  he  followed  to  the  back  yard.  He  had  read 
books  in  which  the  characters  said  "  calkerlate," 
but  he  had  suspected  the  author  of  artificiality. 
Now  he  heard  it  as  an  everyday  form  of  speech. 
He  was,  indeed,  in  a  strange  country.  And,  being 
in  a  strange  country,  he  must  accustom  himself  to 
strange  people.  Fie  shrank  from  Emma's  unlady- 
like manner,  from  her  boyish  freedom,  but  he 


24  STORK'S   NEST 

resolved,  if  possible,  to  establish  a  more  friendly 
footing  with  the  ignorant  child.  Emma,  who  had 
darted  into  the  cabin,  returned  carrying  a  rock- 
ing-chair upon  her  stout  shoulder. 

"  Now,  yous  sit  right  down,"  she  said,  twirl- 
ing the  chair  in  air  and  bringing  it  to  earth  with  a 
thump.  "  Yous  has  got  a  peaked  look,  an*  I  cal- 
kerlate  yous  hain't  used  to  stirrin'  yourself  much. 
Why!  yous  air  as  frail  as  a  kitten.  Your  legs  is 
scurcely  half  as  big  as  mine;  yous  air  'most  skin 
an'  bones,  judgin'  from  the  way  your  clothes  bag. 
Better  take  off  them  shoes,  an'  stretch  your  toes, 
an'  make  yourself  t'  'ome." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Benton,  who  had  sunk 
into  the  chair  with  a  grateful  sigh.  "  But  this 
chair  is  very  comfortable,"  he  continued,  with  his 
friendly  smile.  "  The  fact  is,  I'm  not  used  to 
much  walking.  I  was  kept  pretty  close  at  school 
till  June,  and  since  then  I've  been  clerking  in  a 
store.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  walked  twenty  miles  since 


noon." 


Emma    threw    back    her    head    and    laughed. 

'Tain't  nothin'  to  me  to  walk  to  Laclede  Sta- 
tion," she  remarked,  "  if  I  hev  to.  Say,  Ben, 
you're  the  kind  of  feller  I've  wanted  to  git 
a-hold  of.  Yous  must  know  a  pow'ful  sight  of 
things  I  want  to  learn.  An'  •I'll  git  'em  out  of 
yous,  before  this  week's  up,"  she  added,  shaking 
her  head  at  him  playfully.  "  You're  differ'nt 
from  us  folks.  Your  very  straw  hat  an'  long 


THE   LOG    CABIN  25 

stringy  tie,  not  to  say  collar,  which  we  hev  not,  an* 
your  very  shoe  lacin'  smells  of  eddication.  An' 
hain't  yous  got  little  feet ! "  Emma  danced, 
holding  her  skirts  out,  fan-like,  with  admirable 
gravity.  "  Now,  Ben,  I'm  a  ballet  gal.  Don't  I 
look  it?" 

"  I    don't    know,"    said    Benton    mildly.     "  I 


never  saw  one." 


Emma  stopped  suddenly.  "  But  yous  come 
from  the  south  of  the  State.  An'  yous  talk  dif- 
fer'nt  from  me.  I  'lowed  yous  had  saw  things, 
too !  Maybe  you're  hongry,  an'  that's  what's 
the  matter.  Nuver  mind;  gran-pop  '11  be  here 
purty  soon,  an'  then  we  kin  have  supper.  Say, 
Ben,  don't  these  chickuns  act  scan'l'us?  I've  shet 
'em  out  the  hen  house  ca'se  of  chiggers,  an'  it's 
drove  'em  plumb  ravin'  destracted!  " 

The  girl  climbed  upon  the  fence,  and  seated  her- 
self upon  the  flat  top-rail.  As  they  watched  the 
chickens,  Benton  could  not  but  be  amused  by  the 
angry  calls  of  the  rival  cocks  bidding  the  agitated 
hens  to  different  trees  in  the  orchard.  In  spite  of 
his  uncertain  future,  he  was  able  to  join  in  Emma's 
laughter  at  the  strangely  human  behavior  of  the 
fowls ;  and,  having  given  her  up  as  not  one  of  his 
class,  and  regarding  her  simply  as  a  part  of  his 
strange  experience,  he  found  his  disapproval 
passing  away.  After  all,  she  was  young,  and  he, 
with  his  three  years'  advantage,  could  afford  to 
look  upon  her  with  a  man's  broad  toleration.  He 


26  STORK'S   NEST 

was  so  absorbed  in  his  study  of  her,  and  so  dis- 
appointed over  the  departure  of  the  Storks,  that 
Hezzie  Whitlicks  passed  from  his  mind. 

Suddenly  Emma  cried:  "  Gran'pop  is  comin'  ; 
bless  his  heart !  "  She  gave  a  great  leap,  cleared 
a  clump  of  weeds,  and  rushed  around  the  log 
cabin.  Benton  descried  a  form  slowly  climbing 
over  the  distant  fence  which  separated  the  wood 
from  the  main  road.  It  was  an  old  man,  small, 
thin  and  dry.  His  hair  and  beard  were  white, 
and,  as  he  drew  nearer,  Benton  saw  that  his  face 
was  crossed  by  the  different  paths  care  and  sorrow 
had  taken  during  seventy  years.  Emma  met  him 
at  the  stile  block  and  brought  him  forward,  her 
vigorous  arm  about  the  slight  shoulders. 


Ill 

"UNCLE     HI" 

BEN,"  cried  Emma,  with  hearty  familiarity 
as  if  she  had  known  the  young  man  from 
infancy,  "  this  here  is  my  gran'pop.  What 
do  yous  think  of  him?  " 

Emma's  face  beamed  and  it  was  so  evident  that 
she  expected  the  other  to  think  well  that  Benton 
was  pleased  and  touched.  The  old  man  carried  a 
skunk  by  its  tail,  not  gingerly,  but  as  if  attached 
to  the  dead  animal.  He  was  a  trapper,  "and  skunk 
skins  formed  his  principal  income. 

"  So  yous  got  here,  Ben,"  said  Emma's  grand- 
father in  a  kindly  voice;  his  tones  were  in  a 
soprano  key  and  sounded  like  those  of  a  woman, 
as  if  they  were  wearing  out;  they  had  no  depth, 
and,  so  far  from  seeming  to  emanate  from  his 
lungs  or  chest,  they  appeared  to  be  freshly  made 
in  his  mouth.  His  clothes  were  much  too  large 
for  him  and  had  an  appearance  of  having  been 
assumed  for  temporary  use.  Around  his  neck 
was  coiled  a  red  yarn  sock,  the  toe  of  which  was 
fastened  to  the  top  by  a  boldly  conspicuous, 
brassy  safety  pin. 

"  Ben's  about  tuckered  out,"  Emma  explained. 

27 


28  STORK'S    NEST 

"  He  hain't  used  to  doin'  nothin' ;  an'  jest  walkin' 
along  wears  out  what  legs  he  has,"  she  added  with 
a  disparaging  stare  at  the  members  in  question. 
"  But  yous  go  'long,  gran'pop,  an'  git  off  your 
skunk  clo'es  so  we  kin  have  supper." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  old  man  in  his  faint,  worn- 
out  voice.  "Sorry  you're  feelin'  poorly,  Ben;  I 
hev  a  bad  cold  myself;  hain't  nothin'  like  a  sock 
for  colds.  Set  here  an'  enjoy  yourself,  Ben,  till  I 
come  back." 

The  old  man  carried  his  captured  prey  with  him 
through  the  orchard. 

"  Ain't  he  a  spry  ole  man,  though,"  said 
Emma,  gazing  admiringly  after  him.  "  Now 
would  yous  think  to  look  at  gran'pop,  that  he  was 
seventy?  -Look  at  that  back!  They's  lots  of 
bone  in  it !  Gran'pop  never  says  die  !  " 

Benton,  who  had  accepted  the  comment  with 
the  utmost  gravity,  though  secretly  amused,  re- 
sponded warmly:  '  Your  grandfather  has  a 
very  kind  face,  Emma."  Still  weary  from  his  long 
journey,  he  stretched  his  thin  legs  in  the  cool 
plantain,  and  luxuriated  in  the  easy  chair,  while 
the  breeze  stirred  his  glossy  locks. 

"  That's  right !  "  exclaimed  Emma,  starting 
toward  the  cabin.  "  His  face  is  like  a  clock  that's 
allays  wound  up;  yous  kin  look  at  it  an'  know 
it's  keepin1  sun  time!  Now,  I'm  goin'  to  git 
supper.  You  sit  thar,  an'  look  at  the  chickuns 
an'  things,  an'  enjoy  yourself." 


"UNCLE    HI"  29 

Emma's  grandfather  was  so  slow  in  his  move- 
ments, that  by  the  time  he  had  donned  his  house- 
clothes  and  disposed  of  his  beast,  supper  was 
ready.  As,  with  his  leisurely  step,  he  led  Benton 
toward  the  cabin,  the  youth  discovered,  stretched 
upon  its  western  side,  a  beautiful  fur  skin,  hang- 
ing up  to  cure.  The  door  led  into  a  combination 
of  kitchen,  sitting-room  and  bed-room.  Every- 
thing was  neat  but  plain.  Benton  had  never 
before  found  a  single  bed  associating  with  a 
kitchen  stove;  now,  however,  he  saw  them  upon 
fairly  intimate  terms.  The  old  man  was  still 
rather  reminiscent  of  his  entrapped  animal,  but 
not  too  much  so  to  conquer  Benton's  assertive 
appetite.  Even  the  fierce  heat  of  the  roaring 
kitchen-stove,  to  which  the  young  man  was 
neighbor,  could  not  overcome  the  hunger  which 
had  increased  with  every  mile  of  his  wan- 
derings. 

There  was  one  window  in  the  room,  small  and 
square,  fitted  with  a  sash,  which  moved  upon 
hinges,  like  a  door.  Both  window  and  door  were 
opened  to  their  utmost  capacity.  The  old  man, 
who  sat  opposite  the  guest,  became  moist  and 
glistening  in  the  heat.  Emma,  at  one  end  of  the 
oblong  table,  was  not  only  moist  and  glistening, 
but  very  flushed  from  cooking.  Benton  was  tak- 
ing a  bath  from  his  perspiration,  and  he  could  feel 
his  garments  sticking  to  him  at  various  points  of 
contact. 


30  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Take  off  your  coat  an'  vest,  Ben,"  cried 
Emma,  pushing  her  golden  hair  from  her  damp 
brow.  "  Look  at  gran'pop.  What  I  like  to  see 
is  suspenders  crossin'  theirselves,  when  a  feller's 
burnin'  up." 

"  I'm  allers  thinkin',"  remarked  the  old  man, 
"  that  bimeby  I  kin  git  out  in  the  open,  an'  cool 
off  out'ardly,  whilst  digestin'  in'ardly.  But  take 
off  that  coat  'n'  vest,  son;  it  makes  me  hot  to  look 


at  'em." 


"  I  don't  mind  them,"  smiled  Benton,  enjoying 
the  eggs  and  bacon. 

"  Then  jest  stick  to  'em,"  cried  Emma.  l  Yous 
are  what  I've  been  lookin'  for  —  somethin'  dif- 
fer'nt  from  we-all.  Oh,  gran'pop!  the  things  he 
must  know!  " 

"  Emmy,"  her  grandfather  explained,  "  is  jest 
dyin'  to  pull  out  of  her  tracks  an'  be  .a  Person. 
Nobody  in  these  parts  could  learn  her  how,  unless 
it's  'Bije  Stork.  He  has  money  an'  could  buy  her 
an  eddication  any  day  she  says  the  word.  I've 
learned  her  all  I  kin.  But  I've  forgot  now  most 
I  ever  knowed,  so  no  use  cloggin'  up  my  brains 
with  new  matter.  When  you're  as  old  as  me  it's 
best  to  put  in  your  time  clingin'  to  what  you've 
got  on  hand." 

*  Yous  know  enough,  anyhow,"  returned 
Emma.  "  I  don't  know  nothin'.  Ben,  he'll  have 
to  learn  me  this  week  all  I  kin  stand,  for  his 
board-money." 


"UNCLE   HI"  31 

"  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Benton,  smiling  at  the 
eager  face,  "  but  I  am  no  Solomon,  Emma." 

"  That  reminds  me  we  don't  know  what  yous 
are,"  she  returned.  "  'Bije  says  you're  to  work 
for  Si  an'  him  an'  they  knowed  your  pa  before 
he  died." 

"  My  life  is  not  an  interesting  story,"  Benton 
replied,  "  just  study  and  clerking;  that  has  kept 
me  from  being  strong.  So  I  am  glad  of  this 
chance  to  live  on  a  farm  in  the  open  air.  Of 
course,  if  I  get  tired  of  it,  I'll  quit  and  go  back 
to  prepare  for  law  college." 

"  Don't  know  whether  you'll  quit  or  not," 
remarked  Emma,  shaking  her  bright  head. 
"  Heap  easier  to  pick  up  the  Storkses  than  to  le' 
go  of  'em.  If  they  git  holt  you're  their'n,  soul 
an'  body.  'Bije  is  my  friend,  but  that  don't  bender 
me  from  knowin'  his  ins  an'  outs;  it  helps  me,  I 
reckon.  .They's  nothin'  like  a  friend  for  knowin' 
your  weaknesses  an'  failin's.  An'  I  know  his, 
an'  all  his  tribe's.  I  ain't  afraid  of  him,  myself, 
but  I  don't  know  nobody  else  as  is  n't.  An'  they 
won't  mix  much  corn  with  your  hay  at  feedin'." 

u  Well,"  said  Benton  decidedly,  "  open-air 
exercise  is  my  object  in  coming  north,  but  I  sup- 
pose the  Storks  have  n't  a  monopoly  on  it;  if 
everything  does  n't  suit,  I'll  try  another  farm." 

"  I  don't  know  *  monopoly,'  '  said  Emma, 
"  but  I  know  'Bije,  and  hard  it  is  to  git  loose  from 
him,  let  me  tell  yous!  Thar's  that  poor,  meek, 


32  STORK'S   NEST 

sniffling,  spindlin'  Jim  Whitlicks,  a  orphan  that's 
lived  with  'em  come  now  four  year — at  least  he's 
as  much  a  orphan  as  kin  be  with  a  ghost  of  a  daddy 
livin'  in  the  same  county " 

"  Hezzie  Whitlicks?"  exclaimed  Benton,  for- 
getting in  his  sudden  interest  to  mop  his  fore- 
head, and  his  eyes,  in  consequence,  suffering  an 
inundation. 

"  You've  heerd  of  him? "  observed  Hiram. 
"  Now,  your  Uncle  Hi  have  saw  that  speret  with 
these  eyes." 

"  I  wish  I  could  of!  "  cried  Emma. 

u  I  walked  with  the  big  red-whiskered  high- 
wayman this  afternoon,"  said  Benton.  "  Surely 
you  don't  think  that  half-witted  rascal  a  ghost?  " 

"  I  never  heerd  nobody  question  it  before," 
returned  Hiram,  astonished.  "  You  surely  don't 
think  he's  a  man?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  that's  what  I  took  him  to  be." 

"  A  man,  nothin' !  "  retorted  Emma.  "  Gran'- 
pop  went  to  Hezekiah's  funeral  ten  year  ago; 
did  n't  yous,  gran'pop  ?  " 

'  That's  what  I  done,  honey.  I  helped  lay 
him  out,  an'  I  see  him  put  in  his  grave,  as  dead  a 
man  as  I  ever  hope  to  be.  People  had  'most  for- 
got his  name  an'  callin'  when  here,  a  few  year 
back,  his  speret  riz  in  the  same  suit  he  was  buried 
in, — best  he  had,  poor  old  feller, — same  boots, 
the  right  toe  showin'  a  cut  where  his  ax  slipped 
one  day." 


"UNCLE    HI"  33 

"I  noticed  that!"  Benton  remarked.  "But 
you  surely  don't  believe  in  ghosts?  " 

"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  no  others,  Ben, 
but,  as  to  what  my  eyes  has  saw,  your  Uncle  Hi 
can't  be  gain-sayin'.  Eyes  must  be  allowed  to 
assert  their  privileges.  Yous  can't  say  to  'em, 
*  That  there  skunk  yous  see  catched  in  the  trap 
hain't  no  skunk,  it's  otter-of-roses ; '  yous  can't 
talk  to  eyes  that  way." 

As  the  meal  was  now  over  Hiram  and  his  guest 
issued,  steaming,  into  the  yard,  leaving  Emma  to 
clear  away  the  repast.  The  old  man's  first  act 
was  to  remove  his  boots  and  socks,  and  cool  his 
feet  in  the  long  wire-grass.  Benton,  who  felt 
much  refreshed,  brought  him  the  rocking  chair, 
and  seated  himself  on  the  single  front  step,  which 
consisted  of  a  soap-box.  It  was  not  a  superfluous 
adornment  to  the  front  of  the  house,  for  the  dis- 
tance from  the  ground  to  the  threshold  of  the 
front  door  was  at  least  three  feet.  The  old  man 
seated  himself  slowly  and  carefully  as  if  afraid  of 
breaking  himself,  and  from  three  different  pockets 
produced  a  pipe,  a  sack  of  tobacco,  and  a  match. 
These  three  presently  came  together. 

When  Emma  opened  the  front  door  and 
lowered  a  chair  to  the  ground  for  her  own  use,  it 
was  growing  dark.  Benton,  who  had  deserted  the 
soap-box  to  take  the  chair,  offered  to  help  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  to  descend.  Hiram  chuckled 
and  Emma  laughed. 


34  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Jest  watch  me,"  she  cried.  Then  bending 
her  knees,  she  leaped  clear  of  the  step  and  alighted, 
flat-footed  and  secure,  upon  the  grass.  She  drew 
her  chair  to  her  grandfather's  side,  put  her  arm 
about  him,  and  sat  a  few  moments  in  silence.  Then 
she  reached  up,  took  the  pipe  from  his  lips,  and 
holding  the  bowl  near  her  nose,  inhaled  vigorously. 
"  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  a  man !  "  she  sighed. 

"  Nuver  mind,  honey,"  said  Hiram,  resuming 
the  pipe,  and  stroking  her  beautiful  hair,  "  the 
smell  is  the  most  good  they  is  to  a  thing  anyway, 
an'  yous  git  the  full  flavor  of  that.  They  ain't 
nothin'  on  airth  so  satisfying  if  yous  look  at  it 
right,  as  smells;  they  never  disagree  with  your 
stomicks,  they  never  leave  yous  feelin'  mean, 
wishin'  yous  had  n't  did  so-an'-so,  they  don't 
leave  no  regrets,  if  yous  air  content  jest  to  smell 
an'  then  go  on  about  your  business.  Now,  Ben, 
do  we  seem  much  differ'nt  from  the  people  lyin' 
up  on  your  store-shelves?  Well,  we  air  a  cur'us 
mixture.  The  dregs  of  Iowa  has  leaked  down 
here,  an'  the  froth  of  Mizzoury  has  riz  up;  an' 
thar's  a  little  E-lynoise  an'  Kentucky  that  would  n't 
never  mix;  an*  that's  us.  But  jest  look  at  Emmy. 
What  'd  yous  think  of  her?  " 

In  truth  Benton  scarce  knew  what  to  think. 
She  was  so  unlike  anyone  he  had  ever  known  that 
his  standards  of  comparison  seemed  unfair.  As 
the  girl's  brown  hand  passed  lightly  over  the  thin 
white  locks  of  the  old  man,  then  came  to  rest  upon 


"UNCLE    HI"  35 

his  shoulder,  the  guest  watched  them  both  and 
felt  a  thrill  of  ever-growing  interest  and  appre- 
ciation. It  was  now  dark.  Yonder  ribbon  of 
gloom  was  the  high-road;  that  black  shadow  of 
fantastic  outlines  was  the  orchard;  the  black 
expanse  beyond  the  paler  ribbon  was  the  wood. 
The  air  was  filled  with  ceaseless  songs  of  crickets 
and  katydids  and  immature  frogs.  Occasionally 
the  shrill  trilling  was  accented  by  a  deeper  note. 

"  Ole  bullfrog,"  said  Emma,  as  if  making  an 
introduction.  "  He  sounds  like  somebody  was 
milkin'  a  cow  in  a  tin  bucket,  don't  he?  " 

"  Kin  you  remember  anythin'  the  ghost  said?  " 
asked  the  old  man,  coming  out  of  a  deep  reverie. 
"  We've  got  to  stay  out  here  till  the  kitchen  stove 
is  cool  enough  to  be  Emmy's  bedfeller.  We 
might's  well  talk  an'  not  leave  it  all  to  the  frogs." 

u  He  knew  my  name,"  Benton  answered,  as  the 
mysterious  sounds  from  the  black  forest  suggested 
the  lonely  ghost  wandering  in  the  night. 

"  Course !  Now,  did  he  have  on  a  black  shirt 
an'  blue  pants?  In  sich  I  laid  him  out." 

"  Yes,  and  a  small  white  cap,"  Benton  returned 
somewhat  pointedly. 

"Oh!"  said  Hiram.  "Well,  as  to  say  a 
small  white  cap,  I  don't  know  what  to  tell  you. 
That  goes  along  with  the  pistol.  Did  he  talk?  " 

"  He  praised  the  Storks  highly." 
'  That's  cur'us.     He  was  a  b'ilin'  hot  enemy 
to  'em,  when  livin'.     They  had  a  lawsuit  over  a 


36  STORK'S   NEST 

hog  gittin'  through  a  gate.  Well,  I  reckon  when 
a  feller's  dead,  he  finds  out  that  hogs  cuts  mighty 
small  figgers,  an'  that  grievances  ain't  immortal 
like  the  soul."  He  puffed  on  in  silence,  his  head- 
light dimming  and  glowing  according  to  his  speed. 

Suddenly  Emma  began  in  a  deep  and  awful 
voice:  "One  co-o-old,  da-a-a-ark  night,  'Bije 
was  goin'  through  them  very  woods,  yonder,  an' 
he  heerd  somethin'  goin'  '  Crawmp !  crawmp !  ' 
By  the  moon  he  sees  somethin'  in  blue  pants,  black 
shirt  and  red  whiskers.  'Bije  clump  along  closer, 
an'  see  it  was  Hezekiah — what  was  left  of  him. 
The  ghost  says:  *  Enemy!  enemy!  '  in  jest  that 
awful  voice.  Did  n't  it,  gran'pop?  " 

"  That's  what  it  done,  honey;  'Bije  said  so." 

"  An'  what  'Bije  says  is  gospel,"  Emma  added; 
"  he  don't  have  to  tell  lies,  havin'  all  the  money 
he  needs — though  he  do  want  more,  that's  a  fact. 
Well,  the  ghost  disappeared  then  an'  thar,  before 
his  eyes,  an'  immediately  a  big  fire  bu'st  from  the 
very  airth,  so  no  doubts  was  left  as  to  where 
Hezekiah  lives  when  he's  at  home." 

"  Ever'  word  gospel,"  said  Hiram,  knocking 
his  pipe  upon  the  chair-leg  and  rising;  "  an'  a 
mighty  good  tale  to  go  to  bed  on.  They  would  n't 
no  man  in  his  flesh  have  took  your  money  an' 
watch,  an'  then  leaved  'em  behind.  Hezzie 
would  n't  of  did  it,  when  he  was  nothin'  but  a 
mortal.  If  he'd  took  'em — I  hain't  sayin'  he 
would  of,  but  if  he  had  of — he'd  kept  'em. 


"UNCLE    HI'1  37 

Yap,  he  were  that  clostfisted.  I  don't  like  to  say 
nothin'  ag'in  dead  folks,  an'  yous  dare  n't  say 
nothin'  actionable  ag'in  the  livin',  so  what  are 
yous  goin'  to  do?  An'  besides,  when  a  dead  un 
hez  his  ghost  round  to  defend  hisself,  I  feels  that 
the  ordinary  hamper  have  been  removed." 

Emmy  kissed  her  grandfather  good-night,  and 
went  around  to  the  kitchen-door,  which  opened  into 
her  bedchamber  as  well.  As  she  danced  around 
the  corner,  she  sang.  Hiram  and  Benton  carried 
the  chairs  into  the  front  room,  where  there  was  a 
single  bed  for  the  old  man,  and,  upon  the  carpet- 
less  floor,  a  pallet  for  the  guest.  It  was  a  small 
room,  divided  from  Emma's  by  a  partition  of 
boards,  newspapers  and  scraps  of  rag-carpet.  The 
light  from  Emma's  candle  made  pale  blurs  in  such 
parts  of  the  partition  as  had  been  repaired  by 
newspapers.  The  front  room  was  but  sparely 
furnished.  Besides  the  beds  and  two  chairs,  there 
was  an  old  gray  trunk,  a  great  goods  box  and  a 
ladder  leading  up  to  the  loft.  Hiram  stuck  the 
candle  upon  a  step  of  the  ladder  with  some  of  its 
own  grease,  and  prepared  for  bed.  All  this  time 
he  and  Emma  had  maintained  a  brisk  conversa- 
tion which  the  thin  partition  allowed  without  any 
unusual  elevation  of  the  voice.  Benton  was  much 
longer  in  disrobing.  Presently  the  blurs  disap- 
peared from  the  wall,  proving  that  Emma  was  in 
bed.  The  young  man  blew  out  the  candle. 

"  Jest  leave  that  door  open,  my  son,"  said  the 


38  STORK'S   NEST 

old  man  in  a  comfortable  voice.  "  The  coolness 
is  reachin'  the  right  spot,  an'  this  sock  '11  ward  off 
the  dampness  from  your  Uncle  Hi." 

Benton  lay  down  with  the  door  open  and  was 
about  to  succumb  to  heavy  drowsiness  when  there 
came  Emma's  cheery  voice,  "Hello,  gran'pop!  " 

Hiram's  sleepy  tones  drawled:  "  Hel-l-lo, 
honey!" 

"  Gran'pop,  yous  hain't  sleep  already,"  Emma 
remonstrated.  "  I'm  burnin'  up.  This  heat 
feels  like  breakin'  broom-corn,  don't  it?  Say, 
Ben!" 

But  Benton  was  fast  asleep.  The  old  man 
emitted  a  gentle  snore.  So  Emma  went  to  sleep, 
for  company. 


IV 


TWO    WAYS    TO    BECOME    A 
"PERSON" 

BENTON  was  awakened  the  next  morning 
by  hearing  old  Hiram  Garrett  groan,  yawn 
and  clear  his  throat  violently.  The  young 
man  started  up  from  his  pallet  somewhat  confused 
by  the  strangeness  of  his  bedroom.  The  old 
trapper,  already  dressed,  sat  in  the  doorway,  his 
bare  feet  dangling  over  the  soap-box  doorstep. 
"Oh-ho!"  groaned  the  old  man.  "Haw-huff! 
Haw-ho!  "  He  was  in  no  pain;  this  was  his  way 
of  letting  the  world  know  that  he  had  risen  for  the 
day,  and  that  he  thought  it  time  for  its  other  in- 
habitants to  be  astir.  Seeing  his  guest  aroused, 
Hiram  prepared  to  cease  his  exertions  gradually. 
He  puffed  very  hard  at  his  pipe,  then  emitted  a 
half-hearted,  "O-o-o-oh!" 

"  All  right,  gran'pop,"  came  Emma's  voice 
through  the  partition,  "  I'm  up.  Have  yous 
got  up,  Ben?  " 

u  I'm  up,"  Ben  answered  in  a  rather  discour- 
aging voice.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  convers- 
ing with  young  girls  while  in  dishabille.  As  he 
groped  in  the  semi-gloom  for  his  garments,  the 

39 


40  STORK'S    NEST 

young  man  addressed  his  host:  "  Is  n't  it  early?  " 
He  was  still  sore  from  his  long  tramp,  and  a  heavy 
weariness  refused  to  be  shaken  off.  The  air  rang 
with  the  trills  of  frogs  and  the  shrill  monotones 
of  locusts. 

"  This  airly?  "  cried  Hiram.  "  La,  no !  Hit's 
cloudy,  that's  all;  mebby  it  do  seem  airly  to 
yous,  but  bless  your  heart,  this  hain't  nothin'  to 
what  I've  saw,  in  my  day !  " 

As  Benton  followed  the  old  man  out  of  the 
house,  the  trees  were  beginning  to  separate  them- 
selves from  the  general  darkness.  The  wood  be- 
yond the  main  road  still  presented  a  background 
of  unbroken  black,  but  in  the  front  yard  the 
twisted  persimmon  tree  and  the  heavy-topped 
catalpa  tree  showed  between  them  a  gap  of  pale 
gray  sky.  Hiram  walked  slowly  around  the 
cabin  to  the  well,  and,  leaving  Benton,  went  to  the 
kitchen  for  a  wash-pan,  a  box  of  soft  homemade 
soap,  and  a  rough  clean  towel. 

Benton  found  the  bucket  a  burden  before  he 
could  draw  it,  hand  over  hand,  to  the  platform. 
The  rope  made  his  soft  hands  burn,  and  his  breath 
was  a  little  labored  as  he  said:  "  There  you  are, 


sir." 


Hiram  Garrett  drew  back  a  pace,  waved  his 
skinny  arm  at  the  articles  of  toilet,  and  said  in 
a  hospitable  tone:  "All  right.  Jest  squat  an' 
duck." 

The  young  man,  considering  this  an  invitation 


BECOMING    A    "PERSON'  41 

to  the  bath,  obeyed,  not  without  a  shiver  at  the 
cold  contact  of  the  water.  Before  he  had  finished, 
Emma  appeared  in  the  kitchen  door  giving  the 
last  strokes  to  her  long  golden  hair,  which  hung 
loosely  about  her  shoulders  and  breast.  She 
wielded  a  short,  yellow  comb  with  which  she  lifted 
up  the  locks,  shook  them  vigorously  and  drove 
them  into  position  with  practiced  skill. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Benton,  reaching  hastily 
for  the  towel. 

She  gazed  at  him  attentively  as  if  curious  to  see 
how  he  looked  while  wet,  but  made  no  response. 
Her  close-fitting  neckband  was  unfastened,  and 
the  full  throat  and  soft  rounded  neck  showed  their 
creamy  tint  against  the  almost  black  space  of  the 
unlighted  kitchen.  The  gray  twilight  lay  about 
her  feet,  and  she  seemed  to  rise  from  it  with  her 
streaming  tresses  like  some  charming  Naiad  from 
a  somber  stream.  Her  beauty,  her  freshness,  her 
innocence,  appeared,  to  Benton's  mind,  to  lend 
some  spiritual  interpretation  to  the  most  com- 
monplace details  of  the  humble  scene.  He  was 
divided  between  the  pity  of  such  untrained  grace 
and  simple  beauty  being  lost  in  the  backwoods, 
and  the  pleasure  of  being  a  witness,  as  it  were, 
from  another  world.  Having  dismissed  from  his 
mind  the  cares  and  engrossing  thoughts  of  his  past 
life,  the  young  man's  mind  was  singularly  open  to 
impressions,  and  he  was  himself  surprised  at  the 
interest  he  began  to  take  in  the  Grand  River  girl. 


42  STORK'S    NEST 

"  Gran'pop,"  said  Emma,  "  time  yous  git  ole 
'Thuze  fed,  I'll  have  the  breakfast  on  the 
table."  Then  catching  the  back  of  the  comb 
between  her  strong  teeth,  she  seized  her  hair  in 
both  hands,  gave  it  a  twist  and  roll,  and  advanced 
to  the  guest.  "  Here  yous  are,"  she  said,  hand- 
ing him  the  comb,  "  help  yourself,  Ben,  an'  be 
t'  'ome." 

Benton  took  the  comb  with  a  gallant  bow. 
Emma  returned  to  the  kitchen,  still  twisting  at  her 
locks. 

Hiram  Garrett  bent  over  the  wash-pan,  buried 
his  face  in  it  with  a  splutter,  soused  both  hands 
alongside,  and  began  a  violent  exercise,  accom- 
panied by  stentorian  breathing.  When  he  had 
finished  "  warshin',"  he  said,  still  panting,  "  Now 
for  ole  Thuze  !  " 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Benton.  "  Are  you 
ready  for  this  now?  " 

"  Which?  "  asked  Hiram,  looking  about. 

"  The  comb,  Mr.  Garrett." 

"Oh,  that?"  said  Hiram.  "Well,  I  don't 
keer."  He  gave  his  head  a  few  perfunctory 
scrapes  with  the  comb,  then  led  the  way  toward  the 
barn. 

They  climbed  the  orchard-fence  and  passed 
among  the  old  trees,  whose  branches  were  growing 
distinct  in  the  lightened  air.  There  was  no  path 
through  the  broom  corn  patch  except  the  natural 
avenues  between  the  rows.  They  presently  reached 


BECOMING    A    "PERSON'  43 

the  barn,  and  old  'Thuze  accepted  his  corn  and 
hay,  not  as  a  favor,  but  as  a  right,  too  long  de- 
layed. He  snorted  contemptuously  at  Benton, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  received  his  customary  allow- 
ance, backed  himself  slowly  against  Hiram  Gar- 
rett  till  he  had  crowded  his  old  master  out  of  the 
stall. 

"  Ole  'Thuze  won't  have  nobody  with  'im,  when 
he's  eatin',"  Hiram  explained.  "He's  morbid; 
that's  how  I  place  it.  An'  when  a  man,  or  hoss, 
or  what-not  gits  to  backin'  at  me,  I  jest  git  out  of 
the  way.  I  don't  try  to  change  nobody's  disposi- 
tion. I  calkerlate  God  He  did  all  He  could  for  'em 
with  what  He  had  to  work  on,  an'  it  hain't  for  me 
to  try  to  make  a  better  job  out  of  'em  than  Him." 

He  led  the  way  up  an  uncertain  ladder  to  the 
loft.  Here  it  was  quite  dark,  the  only  glimmer  of 
light  coming  through  the  opening  in  the  floor 
through  which  they  had  climbed.  The  old  man 
without  hesitation  walked  over  hay  strewn  planks 
to  a  small  room  which  was  built  against  the  gable 
end.  It  stood  like  a  box,  with  hay  heaped  against 
it.  Hiram  unlocked  its  padlock,  and  opened  the 
door.  They  entered  the  little  chamber  whose 
window  of  four  panes  had  been  observed  by  Ben- 
ton  from  the  road,  the  evening  before. 

"  My  property  is  here,"  said  the  old  man. 
"See  them  skins  over  yander?  'Coon,  skunk, 
'possum;  why,  Ben,  I've  sol'  seventy-five  dollars' 
worth  at  one  time.  Do  yous  grasp  the  thought 


44  STORK'S    NEST 

embodied  in  them  words?  Seventy-five  dollars! 
Pshaw!  Words  don't  tell  nothin'.  The  bigger 
fool  yous  are,  the  more  of  'em  you  kin  make. 
Dollars  is  differ'nt,  they  hain't  made  outer  air! 
Ever'  dollar  I  has  signifies  trompin'  through  woods 
an'  mire,  an'  soakin'  in  rain — hit  '11  shorely  rain 
to-day — an'  squattin'  in  damp  an'  mold,  watchin' 
traps,  and  wishin'  wishes  for  Emmy.  Yap, 
seventy-five  dollars  at  one  time !  I  was  n't  never 
no  prayin'  man,  son,  but  if  I  was,  I'd  open  thus: 
'  O  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  for  the  skunks  an'  'coons 
an'  'possums  rangin'  the  woods  of  ole  Mizzoury.' 
Son,  see  that  there  heap  in  the  corner?  My 
skunk-duds." 

"  I  thought  they  might  be,"  said  Benton,  in- 
voluntarily drawing  a  little  farther  away. 

The  old  man  observed  the  movement,  and  said, 
with  his  accustomed  gravity,  tinged  with  a  gentle 
reproof:  "  Yap,  they  smack  of  honest  toil. 
Draw  a  lesson  from  'em,  son.  Never  be  ashamed 
of  what  makes  your  livin',  for  whatever  it  is,  you're 
no  better  than  it.  Now  we'll  go  back  to  the 
best  gal  that  ever  lived.  If  her  cookin'  warn't 
no  appetizinger  than  mud-dobbers'  nests,  that 
great  big  sunny  heart  of  hern  would  make  a 
gravy  to  carry  it  down." 

They  found  the  breakfast  ready,  and  far  more 
appetizing  than  Hiram  had  suggested.  Benton 
thought  the  bacon  somewhat  excessive  in  its  pro- 
portion to  the  fried  eggs,  but  they  were  built,  as 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON*  45 

it  were,  upon  a  wholesome  foundation  of  corn 
hoe-cake;  and  the  coffee  was  delicious.  The 
morning  was  so  far  advanced  that  the  wavering 
light  of  the  candle  was  hardly  needed. 

"  But  if  they's  one  thing  we  have,"  said  Emma, 
after  some  discussion  as  to  the  advisability  of  dis- 
pensing with  this  luxury,  "  it's  ile  an'  grease,  so 
let  'er  burn !  "  When  their  plates  were  helped, 
she  said  admiringly:  "Well,  Ben,  yous  air 
clingin'  to  your  coat!  " 

The  young  man  looked  into  her  thoughtful 
gray  eyes  with  a  merry  light  in  his  luminous  brown 
orbs,  and  his  sensitive,  finely-cut  lips  trembled 
with  a  reply  which  he  did  not  utter.  There  was 
an  unconscious  stateliness  in  his  manner,  even  in 
the  way  he  held  his  head,  which  had  hitherto  kept 
strangers  at  a  distance.  It  amused  him  that  his 
pale  cheek  and  undeveloped  chest  made  him,  in 
Emma's  estimation,  little  more  than  a  boy. 

The  meal  went  forward  almost  in  silence  while 
each  maintained  a  steady,  business-like  advance 
that  threatened  to  lay  waste  the  entire  surrounding 
country.  Finally  Emma  said,  as  if  struck  by  a 
sudden  thought,  "  Oh,  gran'pop  I  Why  not  hitch 
up  the  spring-wagon,  an'  all  three  of  us  go  over  to 
the  Storkses,  before  yous  go  to  Laclede  Station 
after  Ben's  trunk?  You  know  yous  have  to  go 
over  this  week  to  do  their  saltin';  'Bije  asked  me 
to  see  you  done  it." 

"  I  reckon  I  ought  to  go  thar  this  mornin'," 


46  STORK'S   NEST 

said  Hiram  slowly;  "  a  big  rain's  a-comin',  I 
calkerlate.  But  I  could  n't  take  you-all  to  La- 
clede  Station;  it 'd  throw  too  much  weight  on 
ole  'Thuze,  with  the  trunk  comin'  home.  An'  be- 
sides, he'd  jest  balk  an'  refuse  to  pull.  Nobody 
hain't  a-goin'  to  make  nothin'  out  of  ole  'Thuze," 
he  added,  poising  a  bit  of  bacon  on  his  knife. 
"  Ef  yous  put  too  much  on  him,  he  jest  looks  to 
hisself." 

"  Then,  gran'pop,  take  me  an'  Ben  to  the 
Storkses,  do  your  saltin',  an'  leave  us  thar  while 
yous  go  git  his  trunk  by  yourself.  Me  'n'  Ben  '11 
walk  home;  it  hain't  but  a  few  mile.  Won't  we, 
Ben?  Yous  air  rested  your  bones  for  another 
tromp,  hain't  yous?  " 

Benton  refused  to  recognize  the  taunt  in  these 
words.  "  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  the 
Stork  farm,"  he  said,  turning  to  Hiram. 

"  Emmy  kin  take  care  of  yous,"  said  Hiram. 
u  The  river's  low,  an'  it  won't  be  no  difficulty 
walkin'  across.  I  canvt  wait  till  evenin'  to  git  the 
trunk,  for  if  his  weather-eye  hain't  April-foolin' 
your  Uncle  Hi,  we  're  jest  about  to  have  a  mighty 
long  steady  pull  of  fallin'  weather.  I  smelled  it 
in  the  air  when  I  rolled  out  of  bed  this  mornin',  an' 
I  heerd  it  in  the  frawgs'  jubilatin'  las'  night," 
Hiram  affirmed,  nodding  his  head. 

u  An'  yistiddy  afternoon,"  Emma  added,  "  the 
flies  was  holdin'  camp  meetin'  congregations  on 
the  outside  the  winder." 


BECOMING    A    "PERSON'  47 

Hiram  started  up  from  the  table  but,  not  think- 
ing the  matter  sufficiently  established,  returned 
with: 

"  As  I  come  home  late,  I  see  Tobe  Tucker- 
more's  sheep  leavin'  the  fur  pasture.  An'  the 
cows  was  a-bawlin'  although  jest  milked.  I  'low 
the  Storkses  will  git  sick  of  their  fish-fry,  come  a 
big  swamper!  " 

"  Well,"  said  Emma,  as  she  and  Benton  rose, 
"  if  they  git  wet  an'  miser'ble  an'  spile  their  duds, 
they  can  take  it  out  on  Jim  Whitlicks.  Jim,"  she 
added  for  Benton's  benefit,  "  is  the  Gran'  River 
ghost's  son.  Jim,  he's  bound  out  to  the  Storkses, 
an'  he  comes  in  pow'ful  handy  when  they  git  b'ilin' 
hot  an'  can't  take  it  out  on  each  other." 

The  old  man  discarded  his  sock,  as  he  expected 
to  meet  Society  at  Laclede  Station,  and  in  its  place 
substituted  a  bandana  handkerchief,  which  insured 
observation  and  respect  by  its  large  red  spots.  As 
Emma  was  not  to  meet  Society,  she  remained  in 
her  ordinary  dress,  the  blue  calico.  The  sun  had 
not  made  its  appearance  that  morning,  and  heavy 
gray  clouds  hinted  that  the  master  would  be  at 
home  to  nobody,  that  day.  The  air  was  warm 
and  oppressive,  as  if  the  whole  county  were  an 
enormous  kitchen,  with  somebody  in  it  getting 
dinner. 

"  Honey,"  said  Hiram,  as  he  sat  waiting  in  the 
wagon  and  as  she  emerged  from  the  house  with  a 
large  green  umbrella,  "I'm  'feerd  yous  an'  Ben 


48  STORK'S   NEST 

will  git  natchurly  soaked,  walkin'  home  from  the 
Storkses.  Them  clouds  is  fairly  ripe  to  bu'st 
open;  that's  how  I  place  it." 

"  We  won't  care,  will  we,  Ben?  "  cried  Emma, 
crawling  through  the  fence  in  preference  to  climb- 
ing the  stile  steps.  "I've  fetched  the  umbrelP 
for  him;  an'  me,  I'll  jest  splash  along  like  a  duck. 
This  ole  dress  needs  washin',  an'  yous  know  rain 
never  hurts  me !  "  Emma  laughed  in  blissful  an- 
ticipation of  a  rain-bath. 

"  If  I  take  that  umbrella,"  said  Benton,  "  it  will 
be  to  hold  it  over  your  head.  Let  me  help  you 
in  the  wagon." 

"  I  ain't  no  cripple,"  said  Emma,  scrambling 
over  the  end  board.  "  You  git  yourself  in,  an'  it 
'11  be  as  much  as  the  bargain."  She  made  him  sit 
beside  her  grandfather  upon  the  only  seat,  while 
she  stood  in  the  spring  wagon,  her  bare  limbs  well 
apart,  sturdily  supporting  her  rounded,  compact 
form. 

Presently  a  gate  admitted  them  into  the  wood 
from  which  Benton  had  made  his  way. 

'  Tell  Ben  about  it,  gran'pop,"  called  Emma, 
who  was  seeking  to  balance  herself  upon  one  foot. 
"  Ben,  look,  now.  Ballet-dancer!  " 

"  Honey,"  said  Hiram,  glancing  back,  "  I  would 
n't  break  my  neck  if  I  was  yous,  an'  that  can't  lead 
to  nothin'  else." 

Emma  at  once  lowered  her  other  foot  from  its 
attitude  of  inquiry.  "  I  won't  if  yous  mind,"  she 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON'          49 

said  gently,  "  but  beautiful  ladies  make  their  livin' 
that  way." 

"I  would  n't  do  it,  honey;  it's  morbid.  Yap, 
Ben,  one  night  I  was  comin'  through  the  woods, 
not  thinkin'  of  Hezekiah  Whitlicks,  when  of  a 
sudden,  thar  he  was.  I  looked  at  him,  he  looked 
at  your  uncle  Hi.  I  was  so  amazed,  I  did  n't 
know  if  I  was  demicrat  or  republigun,  though  in 
the  war  I  fit.  I'd  heerd  of  the  ghost,  but  had  n't 
put  enough  stock  in  sich  tales  to  make  a  bowl  of 
soup.  He  says  in  a  hoarse,  groundy  kind  of 
voice :  (  Hiram !  Hiram !  ' — He  allers  called 
me  'Hi  '  before  he  died.  I  did  n't  know  how  to 
talk  to  him.  At  fust  my  tongue  would  n't  clack. 
Finally  I  gets  up  a  weak  sort  of  damp  steam  an' 
says,  in  a  solemn  Bible  strain,  '  What  art  thou  ? ' 
He  says,  '  Come  and  see !  '  Well,  I  decided  to 
foller  an'  put  him  forever  out  of  controversy." 

"  I've  got  a  turrible  brave  ole  gran'-pop," 
cried  Emma  admiringly.  "  He  never  says  die !  " 

"  Yous  wait,"  chuckled  Hiram.  "  I  won't  be 
so  brave  in  a  minute.  Son,  I  follered  him,  he 
goin'  before  with  arms  outstretched,  ever'  now  and 
then  lookin'  back,  an1  no  cap  to  his  head,  nuther! 
Thinks  I  to  myself,  *  If  I  had  the  layin'  out  of  you 
now,  my  honey,  they  would  n't  be  nothin'  but  a 
bare  sheet,  an'  then  I  guess  you  would  n't  go 
streakin'  about  in  the  winter  woods,  at  night  I  ' 
At  last  he  stops  and  squats  down,  an' — what  do 
yous  think?  " 


50  STORK'S   NEST 

"I  know!"  cried  Emma.  "  Tell  him,  gran'- 
pop." 

14  Thar  he  set,"  said  Hiram  impressively;  "on 
a  rock?  No,  sir!  On  a  cheer?  Nuck!  Thar 
he  sot  down  in  his  own  coffin  in  which  he  last  see 
the  light  of  day." 

"  Coffin !  "  echoed  Benton,  surprised  at  this  un- 
expected ending. 

"  That's  what  I  thought  you'd  say !  "  cried 
Emma. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Hiram,  "  I  put  out,  an'  I 
never  stopped  tell  I  come  in  sight  of  my  barn.  I 
forgot  I  were  a  ole  man.  I  wish  'Thuze  could 
of  saw  me,  it  might  of  inspirited  him  with  my 
example !  " 

Old  'Thuze,  thinking  his  personal  qualities  dis- 
cussed, brought  up  so  suddenly  that  Emma  needed 
both  feet,  and  every  toe,  to  hold  herself  up- 
right. They  had  reached  the  bank  of  a  wide  bed 
in  the  center  of  which  flowed  a  lazy,  shallow 
stream. 

"  Grand  River!  "  Emma  announced. 

'Tain't  properly  Gran'  River,"  Hiram  ex- 
plained; "  Gran'  River  don't  come  this  fur  north. 
This  is  a  fork  of  West  Fork  of  Gran'  River.  All 
up  here  in  the  north  country  is  "forks,  or  forks  of 
forks,  of  Gran'  River.  But  yous  ought  to  see 
this  here  crick  in  freshet  times,  ought  n't  he, 
Emmy?" 

"  Um-mmh!  "  cried  Emma,  in  affirmation. 


BECOMING    A    "PERSON"          51 

"Go  on,  'Thuze!  "  cried  Hiram;  "we  wasn't 
sayin'  nothin'  ag'in  yous !  " 

'Thuze  turned  his  long  neck,  and  looked  back 
at  them  sourly. 

"  That  means  he  won't  budge  a  leg,"  said 
Hiram,  "  'till  one  of  us  gits  out  an'  walks  across." 

"  That  '11  be  me,"  cried  Emma,  climbing  over 
the  end  board  before  Benton  could  interfere.  "  I 
want  to  walk  over  on  the  rocks,  anyhow." 

"  Come  aroun'  whar  he  kin  see  yous,"  advised 
Hiram.  Emma  trotted  around  and  showed  her- 
self to  the  suspicious  eyes  of  'Thuze.  The  horse 
quivered,  lifted  a  tentative  hoof,  then  slowly  bent 
forward  with  his  load.  "  He's  gittin'  morbid," 
said  Hiram,  "  an',  as  to  age,  he's  allers  had  it,  as 
fur's  I  know;  he  were  entitled  'Thuzelum  when  I 
bought  him,  long  an'  merry  ago." 

Pyramids  of  stones,  which  touched  each  other 
at  the  base,  stretched  across  the  bed  of  the  fork 
of  West  Fork  of  Grand  River.  The  water  was 
so  low  at  the  ford  that  it  scarcely  covered  the 
lower  side  of  the  white  chain,  save  here  and  there, 
where  a  deep,  narrow  channel  had  been  cut. 
Emma  walked  over  the  stones,  holding  out  her 
plump  brown  arms  to  balance  herself.  'Thuze 
followed  alongside,  and  the  water  came  up  to  his 
knees. 

"  It's  pretty  deep,  after  all,"  said  Benton, 
watching  the  wheels. 

"  No,"  said  Hiram,  "  it's  the  quicksand.     That 


52  STORK'S   NEST 

sucks  us  in.  Look  out,  now,  here's  quite  a 
place!" 

"  Had  n't  we  better  go  around  it,  "  inquired 
Benton,  as  the  water  suddenly  rose  to  the  hub. 

"  Jest  sit  stiddy.  Ole  Thuze  '11  pull  us  out. 
This  is  one  place  he  never  stands  in  to  balk.  If 
he  did,  he'd  go  right  down  to  Chiny,  I  calkerlate. 
Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  us:  be  keerful  whar  you 
stand  when  you  git  to  balkin'." 

"  I  wonder  what  makes  it  so  soft?  "  called 
Emma,  who  was  already  across.  "  It  must  be 
suckin'  up  this  here  dampness  from  the  air.  I 
guess  the  catttle  have  n't  been  drove  across  sence 
the  last  big  rain." 

*  You  see,"  Hiram  explained,  "  after  ever' 
freshet  thar  has  got  to  be  drove  a  bunch  of  cattle 
across  before  arry  wagon  will  tackle  this  place. 
But  we  could  n't  go  'round,  as  you  suggested.  As 
them  ole  dodgers  said  to  Columbus,  they  hain't  no 
round  to  it.  This  is  the  only  crossin'.  Out 
yander  on  either  side,  quicksands  is  like  cannidates 
runnin'  for  office;  won't  le'  go  of  yous." 

Benton  was  rather  relieved  when  they  were  on 
the  other  side  and  Emma  had  climbed,  dry-footed, 
into  the  wagon.  A  mile  through  jumbled  hills 
to  whose  sides  clung  patches  of  corn  and  fields  of 
wheat,  brought  them  to  the  Storks'  farm.  The 
gate  opened  into  a  rolling  pasture  dotted  with 
sheep.  Along  a  winding  brook  grew  clumps  of 
trees  now  forsaken  by  the  cows,  their  shade  value- 


BECOMING    A    "PERSON'  53 

less,  because  swallowed  up  in  the  monopoly  of  the 
shaded  sky.  Beyond  the  pasture  stretched  an  ex- 
tensive wheat-field  and  as  'Thuze  drew  near  it  the 
sheep,  after  a  few  last  hasty  mouthfuls,  began  to 
follow,  bleating  in  many  varied  tones,  from  shrill 
treble  to  deep,  contemptuous  bass. 

"  Tobe  Tuckermore's  sheep,"  observed  Hiram 
Garrett,  "  went  to  cover  yisterday.  Even  the 
Storks's  sheep  is  frugaler  than  any  other's." 

As  they  traversed  the  corn-field  'Thuze  oc- 
casionally reached  out  and  grabbed  at  a  leaf  with 
extended  lips,  for  the  stalks  crowded  close  to  the 
weedy  road. 

"  The  Storks's  hosses,"  observed  the  old  man 
with  a  chuckle,  "  knows  better'n  to  do  that.  Be- 
sides, bein'  muzzled,  they  has  no  local  option  in 
the  matter.  'Tain't  to  the  Storks's  economy  to 
lose  so  much  as  one  corn-stalk  leaf." 

"That's  right,"  Emma  affirmed.  "If  thar 
was  a  market  for  air,  them  Storkses  would  be  at 
home  now,  a-bottlin'  hit  up." 

Beyond  the  corn-field  was  another  pasture, 
watered  by  a  deeper  stream.  Along  its  course 
stood  about  a  hundred  head  of  cattle,  every  face 
turned  toward  the  visitors,  as  if  waiting  at  atten- 
tion. Suddenly,  as  if  the  long  black  steer  at  one 
side  of  the  herd  were  a  lieutenant  who  had  taken 
upon  himself  the  command,  and  as  if  he  had  just 
said,  "  Forward,  march,"  the  entire  line  started 
toward  the  spring  wagon.  They  came  in  stately 


54  STORK'S    NEST 

tread,  their  necks  held  out  far  from  the  body  as  if 
in  mute  interrogation.  'Thuze  stopped. 

"  'Thuze  hain't  no  use  fur  steers,"  said  Hiram; 
"  never  had.  Won't  yous  go  forrid  a  little  more, 
Methuzelum?" 

"Quick,  gran'pop,  quick!"  cried  Emma,  roll- 
ing out  of  the  wagon  with  such  velocity  that,  after 
reaching  the  tall  weeds  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
she  took  another  roll,  "  he's  goin'  to  squat !  " 

Hiram,  considering  his  age,  did  remarkably 
well  in  the  way  he  vanished  from  the  wagon-seat. 
Both  he  and  Emma  dashed  at  the  horse's  head. 

"What  will  they  do?"  cried  Benton,  leap- 
ing to  the  ground  and  confronting  the  herd; 
"stampede?" 

"  It  hain't  them,"  Emma  panted,  as  she  hur- 
riedly assisted  her  grandfather  in  unhitching,  "  it's 
ole  'Thuze.  He's  goin'  to  squat !  " 

"  Methuze-lum !  Methuze-lum,"  said  Hiram 
encouragingly,  "  I'm  right  here,  along  of  yous, 
ole  chap!" 

'Thuze  reached  around  and  tried  to  bite  him, 
but  the  old  man  skipped  nimbly  to  one  side.  The 
cattle  were  now  close  upon  them,  but  the  wagon 
was  unfastened.  The  horse,  trembling  with  ex- 
citement, suddenly  brought  his  legs  together  and 
crouched  in  the  weeds  like  a  rabbit. 

"  Now  let  'im  squat !  "  cried  Emma  trium- 
phantly. 

"  Is  there  any  danger,  "  asked  Benton,  watch- 


BECOMING    A    "PERSON"          55 

ing  the  solemn  faces  of  the  cattle  which  sur- 
rounded them  in  a  silent  circle.  Every  now  and 
then  a  steer  in  the  rear  would  hunch  himself  for- 
ward, such  being  his  way  of  saying,  "  Down  in 
front.  " 

"  No  danger,"  said  Hiram  cheerfully.  "  He 
allers  has  got  over  it  so  fur,  though  if  he  don't 
look  out  to  hisself,"  the  old  man  added  for 
'Thuze's  benefit,  "  he'll  bring  on  congestion  of 
the  stomick,  gougin'  his  hoofs  into  it  so  p'intedly." 

"  Does  he  always  squat  when  he  sees  cattle  com- 
ing? "  inquired  Benton,  drawing  back  as  the  black 
steer  began  to  manifest  an  inclination  to  chew  his 
coat-sleeve. 

"Who,  Thuze?  La,  no!  Thuze  don't  have 
no  reg'lar  time  fur  doin'  nothin'  except  takin'  his 
meals.  No  use  tryin'  to  tree  one  of  'Thuze's 
reasons.  He  jest  natchurly  dislikes  everythin* 
that  breathes,  from  me  to  hoss-flies.  I  reckon  it's 
because  he's  been  a  ole  bach'lor  all  his  life, 
never  havin'  no  species  of  his  own  to  kick  up  his 
heels  with.  He's  a  hermit.  He's  isolated,  which 
wa'n't  never  intended  of  man  or  beast;  it  has  made 
'im  morbid.  That's  how  I  place  it." 

Here  the  black  steer  smelled  at  Benton  with 
contempt  so  strongly  marked  that  the  young  man 
started  after  the  green  umbrella. 

"  No  use  for  that,"  said  Emma.  Suddenly 
she  extended  her  arms  and  rushed  at  the  black 
steer.  As  she  waved,  he  slowly  turned.  Then 


56  STORK'S   NEST 

she  ran  at  the  entire  herd,  scattering  it  ignomini- 
ously.  "  If  it  wa'n't  for  runnin'  the  fat  often 
them,"  she  said,  "  I'd  chase  'em  to  the  fur  pasture. 
'Thuze,  do  hurry  up!  Say,  Ben,  was  you  raised 
in  the  big  cities?  How'd  yous  get  so  high  up 
without  encounterin'  cows?" 

Benton  laughed.  "  Blair  City  is  only  a  small 
town,  Emma.  But  it  has  just  happened  that  the 
cows  were  not  '  in  my  set.'  ' 

"  Blair  City !  "  echoed  Hiram  in  his  faint,  weak 
voice.  "  Never  heerd  of  it.  I  did  n't  know 
Mizzoury  ever  named  towns  except  after  other 
States's  towns,  or  after  other  States,  such  as 
Mexico,  an'  Nevada,  an'  Lexington,  an'  Platts- 
burg,  an'  Paris,  an'  Kansas  City,  an'  Albany, 
an' " 

"  Gran'pop,  don't  name  'em  all,  please,"  said 
Emma.  "  Ben  hain't  a  railroad,  an'  I  hain't  a 
post-office." 

'Thuze,"  said  Hiram,  "  air  yous  most  done?  " 

'Thuze  slowly  turned  and  bared  his  gums  at  his 
master.  "  Honey,"  said  Hiram  to  Emma,  "  I'll 
have  to  leave  yous  to  wait  on  'Thuze.  Me  'n' 
Ben  will  walk  on,  an'  do  the  saltin'."  / 

Beyond  this  second  pasture  a  road  led  to  the 
farm-house.  Without  entering  the  yard  the  old 
man  trudged  to  the  barn,  whence  he  brought  forth 
a  sack  of  salt.  This  Benton  hoisted  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  they  returned  in  such  a  rapid  suc- 
cession of  new  scenes  that  Benton  was  unable  to 


BECOMING    A    "PERSON'  57 

carry  more  than  a  vague  impression  of  a  large 
frame  mansion  and  a  larger  barn.  The  salt  was 
carried  to  another  part  of  the  pasture  where  rude 
troughs  stood  at  a  convenient  height.  Dust-coated 
husks  tucked  away  in  corners  showed  that  in 
winter  these  troughs  were  the  cattle's  dining 
boards  under  which  the  hogs  received  the  benefit 
of  the  crumbs  that  fell  from  the  rich  steers'  tables. 
The  salt  was  emptied  in  little  pyramids  at  inter- 
vals along  the  ground,  and  the  cattle,  being  thus 
tolled  away,  old  'Thuze  rose  stiffly  and  suffered 
himself  to  be  reharnessed. 

"  Now,  I'll  drive  to  Laclede  Station  for  your 
trunk,  Ben,"  Hiram  said,  taking  his  seat.  "  I 
'low  this  here  big  rubber  kiverin'  will  come  in 
handy  before  I  git  home.  If  the  rain  melts  that 
salt  before  it's  licked  up — well,  the  Storkses 
can't  do  nothin'  with  the  elemints !  " 

A  distant  rumble  of  thunder  came  as  a  con- 
firmation of  the  old  man's  fears.  "  Git  up, 
'Thuze!  Say,  honey,"  he  called  as  the  wagon 
rumbled  away,  "  you-all  be  careful  comin'  home." 

"  All  right,  gran'pop,"  shouted  Emma.  Then 
to  Benton,  "Now,  I'll  show  yous  Storks's  Nest. 
They  won't  care,  for  I'm  like  one  of  the  fambly, 
an'  would  be  more  like  one,  if  I  said  the  word, 
which  mebby  I  will,  some  day.  Come  on, 
Benny." 

Benton,  with  a  lively  curiosity  concerning  his 
future  home,  approached  the  square,  flat,  two- 


58  STORK'S    NEST 

story  frame  building.  He  felt  that  the  least 
scrap  of  a  porch  would  have  proved  a  relief  to  the 
eye,  but  the  house  was  like  a  uniform  box  with  its 
lid  closed.  Every  window  was  guarded  by  closed 
shutters.  Emma  went  to  one,  pushed  up  its  slats, 
and  with  an  experienced  hand  drew  forth  a  key. 
This  unlocked  the  kitchen  door.  "  Come  on," 
she  said.  They  entered  a  large,  cheerless  room. 

"  Rather  dark,"  remarked  Benton. 

"  Clouds  an'  shutters,"  Emma  explained, 
"  make  a  dark  combination.  Come  on."  The 
kitchen  opened  into  a  dining-room,  which  in  turn 
opened  upon  the  hall.  "  We'll  take  up  stairs 
fust,"  said  Emma,  "  an'  git  that  over.  Come 


on." 


Benton  followed  up  the  carpetless  flight  of 
stairs,  but  he  found  himself  oppressed,  not  so  much 
by  the  gloom  as  by  uneasy  forebodings  of  he  knew 
not  what.  The  way  was  lighted  by  one  window 
above  the  landing,  through  whose  closed  shutters 
a  pale,  cheerless  light  seemed  to  peep  at  them, 
afraid  to  enter.  The  house  had  a  close  and 
musty  smell,  and  their  feet  awoke  hollow  echoes. 
They  reached  the  hall  above. 

"  This  here  fust  door,"  said  Emma,  knocking 
upon  it,  "  is  Mrs.  Storks's  bedroom,  her  an'  Si's. 
This  here  next  to  it  is  a  lumber-room."  Benton 
stared  distrustfully  at  each  door  as  it  was  pre- 
sented. There  were  rooms  on  only  one  side  of  the 
hall.  "  This  here  third  one,"  said  Emma,  lifting 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON'  59 

her  bare  foot  and  giving  it  a  hearty  kick,  "is  the 
Snake  Room." 

"The  Snake  Room?  Good!"  said  Benton 
smiling.  Yet  in  spite  of  his  smile  he  could  not  rid 
himself  of  the  somber  influence  which  the  very 
walls  deepened.  "  But,  Emma,  do  you  notice 
how  near  that  thunder  sounds?  I'm  afraid  you'll 
get  drenched  if  we  linger." 

"  Why,  I  want  it  to  rain,"  Emma  explained. 
"  I  don't  want  to  tromp  back  over  hard  roads  full 
of  nettles,  an'  have  the  dry  paths  hittin'  at  my 
feet  till  they  spank  'em  sore.  The  muddier  it  is, 
the  sweeter  it  '11  feel.  Come  on." 

After  passing  the  third  room,  the  hall  formed 
a  right  angle,  the  shorter  leg  of  which,  unbroken 
by  windows,  led  to  a  door  at  its  extremity. 
"  Yous  see  the  fourth  an'  last  door? "  said 
Emma.  "  In  a  manner,  it's  off  from  the  balance 
of  the  house.  It's  Jim  Whitlick's  bedroom.  I 
calkerlate  you'll  bed  with  him,  in  Char."  Then 
suddenly,  speaking  in  a  deep  and  significant  voice, 
Emma  said,  as  she  opened  her  eyes  at  him  to  their 
fullest  extent :  "  Jim  Whitlicks,  you'll  remember, 
air  the  son  of  the  Gran'  River  ghost." 

"  I  hope  he  does  n't  take  after  his  father,"  said 
Benton,  not  well  pleased  with  the  prospect  of  such 
a  bedfellow.  "  Emma,  the  wind  is  beginning  to 
blow." 

"  Let  her  blow,"  returned  Emma  cheerfully. 
''  Well,  I  only  hope  his  pa  won't  take  after  you !  " 


60  STORK'S   NEST 

As  they  once  more  entered  the  longer  hall,  she 
again  kicked  the  third  door,  announcing  with  ad- 
miration, "  Ole  Snake  Room !  " 

"Why  '  Snake  Room?"*  asked  Benton, 
"  surely  the  Storks  do  not  keep  snakes !  " 

"  'S  no  tellin',"  responded  Emma.  "  Nobody 
calls  the  room  that  but  me.  Nobody  ever  invades 
that  room  but  'Bije;  I  guess  he'd  die  before  he'd 
let  anybody  see  the  insides  of  it.  Even  his 
brother  Si,  much  less  Mrs.  Stork, — she's  Si's  wife 
— hain't  saw  it,  they  tell  me.  It  hain't  got  no  win- 
ders, or  anyway,  the  shutters  hain't  never  open. 
Once  I  was  standin'  about  here,  when  out  comes 
'Bije.  I  tried  to  stare  in  but  hit  were  all  black- 
ness. After  that  I  called  it  the  Snake  Room.  It 
plagued  'Bije  pow'ful,  at  fust,  but  now  he  don't 
care  nothin'  I  do.  I'll  tell  yous  why,  some  day 
— mebby.  They's  one  thing  about  this  here 
room  that's  cur'us.  I  mean  noises.  They's 
cur'us  noises  an'  smells,  too!  But  they  only 
sounds,  an*  they  only  smells  when  they  hain't 
nobody  in  the  room.  Mrs.  Stork  says  so,  an'  I 
know  it.  If  I  did  n't,  her  sayin'  it  would  n't  cut 
no  figger  with  me.  I  used  to  ask  'Bije  about  it. 
Made  him  bile  up  at  fust,  but  I  wore  him  used  to 
bein'  questioned.  Now,  he  don't  keer  what  I  ask 
'im.  But  he  don't  tell  me  nothin'.  Now  I'll 
go  down  with  yous;  I  see  you're  jest  honin'  to 
git  to  airth." 

The    other    did    not    protest.     He    found    it 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON'  61 

impossible  to  dispel  the  gloom  which  had  settled 
upon  his  spirits.  He  began  to  fear  that  life  in 
this  house  could  hardly  be  cheerful. 

They  reached  the  first  floor.  "  That  front 
room,  which  is  never  opened  except  for  comp'ny 
— I'm  comp'ny,  you  bet — air  the  parlor.  Next 
is  the  spare  bedroom  what  nobody  never  sleeps  in. 
Come  on  back  in  the  dinin'  room;  here's  whar 
we'll  stay.  I  never  go  into  any  room  but  this  one 
an'  the  kitchen.  The  Storkses  know  that  or  they 
would  n't  'low  me  here.  Well,  I  could  n't  git  in 
the  others  if  I  had  a  mind  to,  nohow.  They 
hain't  nothin'  exposed  here  to  be  stole  but  the 
clock,  an'  it  don't  keep  time  nor  nothin'  else." 
She  closed  the  hall-door,  and  the  one  leading  into 
the  kitchen.  "  Now,  we're  snug.  Say!  it's 
rainin' !  Listen  at  that !  Ain't  that  grand !  " 

Benton  threw  open  the  shutters  and  looked  out 
gravely.  "  I  think  we're  in  for  it,  Emma,"  he 
said  regretfully.  '*  To  be  candid,  this  house  is 
not  so  cheerful  as  I  had  expected.  I'd  like  to 
hear  a  sound  or  two  from  your  Snake  Room,  to 
break  the  spell  of  that  upstairs  hall,  or  even  a 
friendly  smell.  There's  a  perfect  flood,  out- 
doors!" 

"  I  have  yous  all  to  myself,  anyway,"  said 
Emma,  "  an'  I  'low  to  do  some  learnin'.  Now, 
look  here."  She  darted  to  a  corner  shelf  and 
took  down  a  pile  of  old  newspapers.  Then  seat- 
ing herself  upon  the  floor  with  her  face  toward  the 


62  STORK'S   NEST 

window,  she  held  the  papers  between  her  knees, 
and  moistened  a  finger  to  turn  over  the  leaves. 
After  fluttering  them  for  a  few  moments  in  si- 
lence, she  said:  "Now,  Ben,  I'll  tell  yous  what 
I  want.  I  want  to  be  a  Person.  D'  ye  under- 
stand?" 

;4  What  kind  of  a  person?"  asked  the  young 
man,  looking  down  upon  the  quaint  picture  from 
the  embrasure  of  the  window.  He  told  himself 
that  the  pleasure  he  experienced  was  the  imper- 
sonal approval  of  an  artist  who  by  chance  happens 
upon  a  beautiful  model. 

"  Well,"  said  Emma  slowly,  "  I  don't  know 
how  to  say  it,  Ben.  An'  I  dare  n't  try  with  gran'- 
pop  by;  it  'u'd  make  him  feel  lonesome,  like.  But 
yous  see  what  I  air,  an'  yous  know  what  I  hain't. 
I'd  jest  like  to  swap  them  two  states  of  bein'  and 
not  bein'." 

There  was  a  wistful  note  in  her  voice  which 
touched  him  deeply.  "  Emma,"  he  said,  "  you 
must  n't  take  me  for  a  model." 

"  Well,"  said  Emma,  "  yous  air  mighty 
spindlin'  about  the  legs,  but  this  hain't  a  matter 
of  legs.  I  want  to  be  like  the  gals  yous  'cus- 
tomed  to  goin'  with,  so  if  I  was  to  be  set  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  caboodle,  nobody  could  n't  see 
no  differ'nce  betwixt  them  an'  me;  they'd  think  I 
was  them.  See?"  She  spoke  with  hesitation, 
choosing  with  difficulty  the  words  that  ought  to 
explain  her  aspirations, 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON'  63 

"  I  believe  I  understand  you,"  said  Benton 
gently.  The  intensity  of  her  desire  which  shone 
in  the  great  eyes,  and  the  apparent  hopelessness  of 
its  fulfillment,  smote  upon  his  heart. 

"  Now,  in  your  town,"  said  Emma  still  very 
slowly,  "what  do  the  gals  thar  do?  How  do 
they  pass  their  lives?  " 

"  Really,'7  said  Benton,  somewhat  at  a  loss,  "  I 
hardly  know  anything  about  girls,  Emma.  I 
never  had  a  sister.  My  mother  died  before  I  can 
remember;  and  I've  been  so  busy  and  confined,  I 
have  n't  gone  into  society." 

"  But  hain't  yous  never  been  in  love?  "  asked 
Emma  in  surprise.  "  What  did  that  gal  do?  " 

Benton  blushed.  "  I  know  as  little  about  love, 
Emma,  as  about  cows." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  how  it  felt,"  sighed  Emma. 
"  I  know  how  you'd  feel  if  you  was  by  the  way 
'Bije  acts.  When  a  man's  in  love,  all  he  tries  to 
do  is  to  make  the  gal  pleased  with  herself.  An' 
I  air,  pretty  well !  But  not  clear.  Now,  listen  at 
me,  Ben;  thar  is  a  sperit  growed  up  inside  of  me, 
differ'nt  from  Grand  River  sperits.  It's  a  dis- 
satisfied sperit.  Thar's  gran'pop.  He's  jest 
natchurly  satisfied  to  stay  as  he  is.  So  air  our 
neighbors;  they  like  theirselves.  I'll  tell  yous 
about  ma ;  I  can  jest  remember  her,  no  more.  She 
come  from  St.  Louis.  She  was  so  polished  up  by 
colleges  an'  such,  it  was  like  rubbin'  silver  bright. 
She  married  gran'pop's  son,  an'  pa,  he  brung  her 


64  STORK'S   NEST 

here  to  live.  An7  here  they  lived,  an'  stayed  pore, 
an'  here  they  died;  more  they  could  n't  do.  Ma's 
fambly  never  forgiv'd  her  marryin'  pa.  They 
won't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  me.  I  reckon  ma's 
sperrit  is  workin'  in  me,  callin'  for  eddication  an' 
polishin'  an'  prunin'  an'  preenin',  so  my  mind 
keeps  restless,  like  birds  before  cold  weather. 
Guess  my  mind  wants  to  go  South.  Ben,  show 
me  the  road  thar.  I  want  to  be  as  good  as  ma's 
fambly, — as  good  as  ma.  I  can't  be  sorry  she 
married  pa,  who  died  before  her,  'cause  that  give 
me  my  gran'pop.  An'  I  would  n't  take  ten 
thousan'  dollars  for  ole  gran'pop,  skunks  an'  all ! 
But  now  I've  got  him,"  added  Emma,  furtively 
rubbing  her  eyes,  "  that's  enough.  I  want  to 
move  forrids." 

"  I  will  do  all  that  I  can  to  help  you,"  said  Ben- 
ton,  liking  her  at  that  moment  more  than  he  could 
have  deemed  possible  an  hour  ago.  It  was  not 
only  that  her  unaffected  heart  was  laid  bare,  invit- 
ing his  sympathy,  but  his  instincts  as  a  student 
were  appealed  to  strongly.  True,  she  was  very 
ignorant;  but  her  craving  for  knowledge  showed 
him  that,  after  all,  her  nature  was  somewhat  akin 
to  his  own.  He  added  sadly,  "  But  it  takes  a  long 
time,  Emma,  such  a  very  long  time  to  become  '  a 
Person!'" 

"  Hain't  they  no  short  cut?  "  inquired  the  girl. 
"  Now,  lemme  show  yous."  She  spread  an  illus- 
trated weekly  open  upon  her  knee.  '  This  here 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON"          65 

woman  takes  my  eye.  Hain't  she  a  beauty? 
Purty  as  a  picture," — she  pointed  at  the  picture  of 
a  ballet-girl.  "  Look  at  them  skirts,  made  out  of 
cobwebs.  Yous  kin  see  right  through  'em !  She's 
a  angel,  fur  as  clothes  kin  make  her.  Well, 
I've  spelled  out  enough  of  this  readin'  to  see  she 
has  all  she  wants,  money,  rooms  in  a  big  hotel — 
several  at  once — travelin'  tickets  all  over  Miz- 
zoury  an'  Ameriky,  too,  I  reckon,  an'  a  little 
cotton  dawg.  She  made  it  all  by  knowin*  when 
an'  how  to  kick.  Did  n't  have  to  plague  her 
brains  with  grapplin'  an'  splicin'  on  a  eddication; 
done  the  hull  business  with  them  thar  two  legs; 
look  at 'em!" 

At  first  Benton  was  inclined  to  laugh.^  But 
the  earnestness  in  her  great  eyes  caused  him  to  say 
hastily:  "Your  St.  Louis  family  would  n't  like 
you  to  be  a  ballet-girl,  Emma.  That  is  n't  the 
way." 

"  Seems  so  easy!  "  sighed  Emma   regretfully. 

1  There's  no  use  to  think  of  it,"  the  other  said 
conclusively.    ["  A  man,  you  know,  can't  lift  him-   /^ 
self  up  by  his  boot-straps.     But  there's  one  way  ~~J3tijL 
he  can  lift  himself  up;  by  his  mind.'^) 

Emma  rose  and  slowly  lifted  the  pile  of  papers. 
There  was  silence  in  the  room  as  she  replaced 
them,  broken  only  by  the  furious  rush  of  the  wind- 
beaten  rain.  The  girl  appeared  dejected;  appar- 
ently one  of  her  cherished  dreams  had  been  dis- 
pelled. She  slowly  crossed  to  the  second  window 


66  STORK'S   NEST 

which  was  near  the  one  at  which  the  other  stood, 
and,  placing  the  palm  of  her  hand  upon  the  mar- 
gin, leaped  lightly  to  the  broad  sill.  She  sat 
there,  staring  at  the  swirling  sheets  of  rain,  swing- 
ing her  feet.  At  last  she  said: 

"  Ben,  begin  on  me,  now,  an'  don't  be  afeered 
of  makin'  me  mad.  If  it's  to  be  the  long  road, 
we'd  better  git  started." 

"You  will  not  be  offended?"  he  asked  cau- 
tiously, for,  in  spite  of  himself,  Emma  at  times  had 
tones  and  looks  which  almost  touched  him  with 
something  like  awe. 

"  Not  at  yous,"  said  Emma  frankly.  "  You're 
doin'  it  to  help  me;  an'  yous  air  too  thin  an'  pale 
to  build  up  an  ugly  temper  on.  Go  ahead,  Ben !  " 

Benton,  somewhat  sensitive  about  his  lack  of 
physical  strength,  flushed  a  trifle,  and  said  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment :  "  I  would  begin  by  put- 
ting my  heels  together." 

"  Soldier? "  inquired  Emma  with  interest. 
"  All  right.  Right  about  face !  " 

Benton  with  a  sudden  flash  of  his  sunny  smile, 
continued:  "  Don't  say  *  yous.'  ' 

"  An'  what  do  yous  say?  " 

"  Say  you;  never  '  yous.'  ' 

"  You !  "  repeated  Emma.  "  Does  n't  that 
sound  flat  an'  empty?  It  hain't  no  body  to  it, 
air  they?  Sounds  like  a  sheep  to  me.  You! 
All  right." 

Benton  hesitated.     The  next  step  in  Emma's 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON"          67 

improvement  was  obvious,  but  he  feared  to  wound 
her  eager,  impulsive  spirit.  She  read  the  hesita- 
tion in  his  brown  eyes  and  said  somewhat  imperi- 
ously: "Go  ahead!" 

"  Emma,  you  should  wear  shoes  and  stockings. 
You  will  soon  be  a  young  lady." 

"Oh,  shoes  an'  stockin's  jest  smother  me!" 
said  the  other  impatiently.  "  I'm  seventeen, 
come  September,  but  what  of  it?  I  never  see  Mrs. 
Bland  with  shoes  on,  an*  she's  a  caution  for  age. 
You're  gittin'  harder  an'  harder,  like  a  fourth 
reader.  What's  the  harm  of  bein'  barefooted?" 

Benton  could  not  but  acknowledge  to  himself 
that  if  all  feet  were  like  Emma's,  it  might  make 
a  difference.  As  he  watched  the  little  brown  pen- 
dulums swinging  below  the  window-sill,  it  was 
hard  to  do  his  duty,  but  he  concealed  a  smile  and 
answered,  "  In  your  mother's  station,  no  lady  goes 
barefoot." 

A  faint  flush  dyed  her  cheeks.  "  I  reckon," 
she  said  slowly,  "  it  air  a  shame  to  me  to  have 
two  feet!  "  Suddenly  she  jumped  to  the  floor 
and  stood  facing  the  young  man :  "  Look  at  me, 
Ben,  look  good,  from  my  toes  to  my  tuck-comb !  " 
Her  face  was  set  in  serious  earnestness,  making 
him  feel  that  her  motive  was  no  slight  one. 

He  looked,  therefore,  and  as  his  eyes  traveled 
from  her  feet  to  her  face,  and  rested  there,  then 
rose  to  the  golden  hair  under  which  the  dark-gray 
orbs  sparkled  with  electric  life,  he  felt,  as  it  were, 


68  STORK'S   NEST 

her  beauty  and  her  youth  borne  in  upon  him  on  a 
wave  of  pain,  and  that  her  personality  had  entered 
his  life  in  some  mysterious  manner,  there  to  abide. 
Although  he  knew  little  of  women,  he  felt  that 
this  girl  had  that  within  which  made  her  a  sister 
of  the  purest  and  the  best;  and,  although  he  had 
cared  nothing  for  women,  he  found  himself  be- 
ginning to  care  'for  Emma.  He  was  thrilled  not 
only  by  her  beauty,  but  by  the  realization  that  he 
was  beginning  to  care,  and  that  he  could,  if  he 
allowed  himself,  care  more, — nay,  that  if  he  did 
not  guard  himself,  he  might  care  too  much.  So 
he  looked,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Now  yous  have  saw  me  good,"  said  Emma, 
"  bare  feet  an'  all.  Do  I  look  to  yous  like  a  gal 
that  could  be  made  a  Person  of,  if  persistent?  Or 
do  I  seem  like  some  common  woman,  unfit  for 
ma's  fambly?"  She  spoke  with  no  resentment, 
but  with  a  humble  timidity  which  sat  upon  her 
with  pathetic  strangeness.  The  last  words  moved 
him  profoundly. 

4  You  look,  Emma,"  he  said  impetuously,  "  like 
— you  look  like  an  angel !  " 

The  angePs  face  was  suddenly  flooded  with 
heavenly  glory.  "  An'  I'm  goin'  to  try  to  be  one, 
Ben.  But  I  'low  to  be  a  lady  fust.  Now  le's 
go  on  with  the  trainin'." 

For  a  moment  he  was  dazzled  by  the  light  in 
her  eyes.  It  recalled  him  to  himself.  He  re- 
gretted that  he  had  uttered  his  involuntary  com- 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON"          69 

pliment;  but,  after  all,  she  was  a  mere  child.  His 
experience  as  mentor  to  one  so  docile  and  charm- 
ing tempted  him  to  try  her  to  the  utmost.  The 
pleasure  of  watching  the  quick  changes  of  the  face 
and  eyes,  the  sudden  starts  and  quivers  of  eager- 
ness, was  not  to  be  resisted. 

"  Miss  Emma,"  he  said,  "  young  ladies  do  not 
address  me  as  *  Ben.1 ' 

"  How  do  they  address  you?" 

"  Mr.  Cabot,"  said  Benton,  with  the  utmost 
gravity.  * 

Emma  gave  him  a  long  look,  but  the  very  in- 
tentness  of  her  eyes  kept  the  quizzical  light  from 
showing  in  his  own.  She  turned  to  the  window. 

"  I  believe  it's  goin'  to  stop  rainin',"  she  said. 
"  After  all,"  she  added,  turning  toward  him  with 
a  little  pout,  half-defiant,  half-reproachful*  "  I 
have  a  shorter  way  than  eddication.  It's  to 
marry;  I  have  my  man  ready,  an1  he  has  the 
money.  He  is  called  'Bije  Stork." 

4  To  marry!"  echoed  Benton,  starting  vio- 
lently. The  very  word  in  connection  with  Emma 
seemed  a  sacrilege.  It  changed  everything,  his 
emotions,  and  her  nature.  "  Oh,  Emma !  " 
There  was  a  sharp  pain  in  his  heart,  and  the  sight 
of  her  youthful  charms  gave  it  poignancy;  "you 
would  n't !  "  he  expostulated  earnestly.  "  Is  n't 
'Bije  Stork  old?" 

;<  Well,  he's  forty-seven,"  said  Emma,  looking 
up  at  him  from  under  her  careless  hair  with  the 


70  STORK'S   NEST 

furtive  watchful  gaze  of  a  naughty  child,  "  but  he 
thinks  more  of  me  than  I  do  of  myself.  For  more 
than  a  year  he's  been  beggin'  me  to  marry  him. 
'Spect  I  will,  before  long.  Looks  like  it's  comin' 
on  me !  " 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  storm,  but  Benton  was 
unaware  of  the  change.  In  a  few  moments,  how- 
ever, it  occurred  to  him  that  Emma's  marriage 
could  in  no  way  affect  his  future,  though  he  had 
been  unduly  affected  by  her  few  words.  He  threw 
up  his  head  with  the  old  stately  manner  which  sat 
so  gracefully  upon  him,  borrowing  a  hint  of  gentle 
nobility  from  the  thinness  of  his  form  and  pale- 
ness of  his  cheeks.  He  was  about  to  introduce 
some  other  subject  when  there  came  to  them  a 
faint,  grating  sound.  It  came  from  above. 

"  That  is  n't  thunder,"  he  said,  staring  at  her 
in  wonder.  "  You  said  nobody  is  at  home." 

"  It's  jest  the  voice'  of  the  room,"  Emma  ex- 
plained, after  a  breathless  interval  of  listening. 
"  Ever'  room  has  a  voice  of  its  own;  did  n't  you 
ever  hear  one  talkin'  in  the  night  time?  Howso- 
ever, the  Snake  Room  is  differ'nt,  I  grant  yous — 
you — for  its  voice  sometimes  is  dreadful !  " 

"  It  must  have  been  the  wind,"  Benton  re- 
marked. "  I  don't  think  even  a  Snake  Room  has 
a  voice  that  you  can  hear  down  a  flight  of 
stairs !  " 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Emma,  "  they  is  other  things 
you  hain't  learned  yit,  besides  steers  an'  gals. 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON'  71 

When  I  marry  'Bije,  that  Snake  Room  is  to  be 
my  room.  IVe  made  'Bije  promise. " 

"It  would  be  wicked!  "  cried  Benton  impetu- 
ously. "  Rather  than  that,  you  had  better  kill 
yourself!  " 

''  Thank  you,"  said  Emma,  laughing;  "  I  expect 
that  would  be  a  good  thing  to  do.  Mebby  I  will. 
Well,  I  hain't  hankerin'  after  'Bije  as  to  say  it's 
'Bije ;  but  he  can  make  a  Person  of  me.  Nobody 
in  these  parts  could  lay  it  over  me,  then.  Why, 
they'd  look  up  to  me,  an'  they  would  n't  be  no 
difficulty  me  lookin'  down !  An'  it's  sich  a  easy 
way  for  a  gal  to  lift  herself  up — marryin'  is;  she 
don't  have  to  do  nothin'.  They  would  n't  be  no 
hamperin'  of  brains  an'  crampin'  an'  subduin'  of 
feet.  My  legs  would  jest  go  scot  free.  An'  I'd 
say  you  or  yous,  or  anythin'  else  I  keered  to  lay  my 
tongue  over." 

"  It  has  stopped  raining,"  said  Benton  quietly, 
"  and  I  hope  you  will  agree  to  go  home,  now.  I 
am  afraid  it  will  begin  again." 

"  You  kin  go,"  said  Emma.     "  I'm  satisfied." 

Benton  went  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Good-by,"  called  Emma,  "  jest  give  'em  my 
love,  Mr.  Cabot"  she  laughed  loudly. 

"  Of  course,  I'll  not  leave  you,"  said  Benton 
quietly,  "but  I  will  wait  for  you  outdoors.  ,You 
will  find  me  at  the  gate." 

He  hurried  out  of  the  darkened  kitchen,  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  him  with  that  significance 


72  STORK'S   NEST 

which  can  be  so  easily  given  to  that  act.  The  rain 
had  indeed  ceased.  Shapeless  clouds  were  hurry- 
ing across  the  sky  before  a  steady  wind,  clouds 
which  had  parted  from  their  watery  stores.  He 
was  obliged  to  catch  at  his  hat  to  keep  it  from 
being  blown  away.  He  paused  at  the  gate  in  the 
soaking  grass,  caring  nothing  for  the  damage  he 
must  do  his  clothes.  He  wished  the  river  were 
crossed.  Perhaps  it  would  be  swollen  by  north- 
ern rains.  He  wished  to  be  removed  from  close 
association  with  Emma.  The  flash  of  sympathy 
and  thrill  of  admiration  had  died  away,  and  he 
could  not  understand  the  mood  which  had  experi- 
enced them.  The  recollection  that  he  had  likened 
her  to  an  angel  made  him  wonder.  The  remem- 
brance that  he  had  feared  that  he  might  grow  to 
like  her  too  well  for  his  peace  of  mind  now  aston- 
ished and  confused  him.  She  appeared  to  him  as 
a  child  with  the  morbid  development  of  a  merce- 
nary woman.  Unused  to  mingle  with  the  world, 
and  therefore,  unable,  from  his  limited  experience, 
to  weigh  motives  radically  different  from  those 
which  prompted  his  own  actions,  his  sympathies 
flowed  in  channels  rather  narrow,  if  deep.  He 
stared  at  the  clouds  and  at  the  road;  he  waited; 
but  the  girl  did  not  come.  A  long  time  passed 
before  he  returned  to  the  kitchen  door  and  called : 
"  Emma !  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

He  returned  to  the  dining-room.     He  paused 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON'  73 

at  the  threshold.  Emma  sat  with  her  back  to- 
ward him,  her  face  buried  in  her  arms. 

"  Why,  Emma !  "  Benton  exclaimed  in  aston- 
ishment, "  you  are  crying!  What  has  happened? 
When  I  left  the  room  you  were  laughing!  " 

Her  face  remained  hidden,  but  her  body  ceased 
to  quiver.  "  Emma,"  he  said  in  a  hesitating 
voice,  drawing  nearer,  "  what  is  it?  "  The  sight 
of  her  distress  made  him  forget  every  unkind 
thought  he  had  entertained.  "  What  is  it, 
Emma?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Emma  wearily,  putting 
back  her  hair  with  both  hands,  "  I  don't!  " 

"Is  it  because  I  left  you?"  asked  Benton 
gently,  taking  her  hand  as  it  smoothed  the  tumbled 
hair,  and  bending  over  the  table  with  great  sym- 
pathy in  his  dark  eyes. 

"Oh — that?  No!"  said  Emma  impatiently, 
drawing  away  her  hand  and  rising.  "  It  was  n't 
nothin'.  I'm  cross.  Come  on  home;  it's  what 
you've  wanted  to  do.  Don't  talk  about  it." 

They  reached  the  main  road  in  silence  and  the 
farther  they  went  the  more  difficult  it  was  for  him 
to  resume  the  conversation.  He  began  to  wonder 
if  he  might  not  find  some  way  to  reach  her  heart 
and  teach  it  a  better  way  to  happiness  than  the 
hard  path  of  dollars.  To  be  a  missionary  to 
Emma — that  was  a  pleasing  prospect.  But  he 
would  wait  till  he  reached  home;  one  does  not 
begin  his  missionary  duties  till  the  voyage  is  over 


74  STORK'S   NEST 

and  the  heathen  country  entered.  It  began  to  rain 
and  he  lifted  the  umbrella  above  her  head. 

"  Don't  hold  that  thing  over  me !  "  said  Emma, 
drawing  away.  Benton  checked  the  impulse  to 
smile  and  folded  the  umbrella  stoically.  On  they 
went  in  silence,  his  shoes  and  her  feet  of  the  same 
color. 

They  had  gone  some  distance  in  the  wood,  Ben- 
ton's  garments  woefully  bespattered,  when  the 
girl  said  sharply:  "  Listen!  " 

At  first  he  thought  it  the  rush  of  the  wind,  for 
every  moment  the  air  current  increased  in  speed, 
while  the  trees  over  which  it  rushed  groaned  anx- 
iously with  its  burden.  Presently  he  recognized  a 
note  different  from  the  other,  a  deep,  incessant 
roar.  "  It  can't  be— 

"  It's  the  river,"  said  Emma,  beginning  to  run. 
He  shared  in  her  excitement  and  followed  rapidly. 
At  last  they  came  in  sight  of  the  water, — how  dif- 
ferent from  the  lazy  stream,  almost  lost  in  its 
bed,  which  they  had  crossed  some  hours  ago !  The 
bed  was  now  filled  to  overflowing  with  a  raging 
torrent  which  swept  along,  booming,  crashing, 
while  upon  its  tumultuous  bosom  tossed  driftwood 
of  strange  shapes  and  swirled  clouds  of  fresh  earth 
and  grass. 

Benton  stared  in  amazement.  Emma  raised 
her  voice  to  be  heard:  "The  clouds  have  bu'st 
up  north,  an'  the  Biley  dam  must  of  bu'st,  too. 
You  feel  how  cool  it's  grown?  I've  knowed 


BECOMING   A    "PERSON"          75 

Grand  River  to  rise  higher  'n  this  in  an  hour  'n' 
a  haff.  But  this  is  high  enough !  " 

In  the  presence  of  this  unexpected  danger,  all 
past  difference  was  forgotten. 

"What  can  be  done?"  called  Benton,  shrink- 
ing back  as  if  it  seemed  to  his  fanciful  mind  that 
the  frothing  waves  were  reaching  out  to  grasp 
them. 

"  We'll  jest  natchurly  have  to  cross  *er,"  called 
Emma,  undaunted.  "  Come  on,  Ben." 

He  sought  to  catch  her  arm  to  hold  her  back 
from  the  dangerous  attempt,  but  she  eluded  him 
and  ran  down  to  the  margin  of  the  turbulent 
stream. 

"  I  cannot  let  you  go,"  he  cried  in  alarm  as  the 
foam  cast  from  the  thundering  torrent  whitened 
her  feet.  He  sought  to  overtake  her.  His 
words  had  been  drowned  in  the  thousand  voices 
of  the  river  which  threatened,  laughed,  mocked 
and  warned.  His  outstretched  arms  sought  her 
in  vain.  Her  form  stood  out  against  the  fury  of 
the  racing  tide  and  the  low  thick  clouds.  She 
was  already  upon  the  crossing,  whipped  by  the 
rain,  and  shaken  by  the  violence  of  the  flood  rush- 
ing down  against  the  causeway. 


ON    THE    FLOATING    TREE 

BOVE  the  muddy  surface  of  the  swollen 
river  rose  the  summits  of  the  stone-heaps 
which  connected  the  banks  as  with  a  neck- 
lace. The  footway  was  no  longer  continuous, 
for  the  lower  parts  were  hidden.  Here  and  there 
the  furious  tide  raced  between  gaps  in  the  cause- 
way and  it  was  at  such  places  that  the  noise  was 
loudest.  The  driftwood,  hurled  against  the  wall 
with  terrific  force,  helped  to  form  a  passage;  but 
occasionally  a  heavy  log  smote  endways  against  a 
pyramid  and  knocked  some  of  the  stones  loose. 
There  were  several  places  where  the  debris  had 
battered  its  way  through.  The  current,  with  that 
instinct  which  makes  currents  something  akin  to 
wild  beasts,  had  discovered  these  openings  and 
was  pouring  through,  ever  widening  them,  ever 
rendering  more  dangerous  the  passage. 

"  No  time  to  lose !  "  cried  Emma  from  the 
rocks;  it  was  necessary  to  strain  her  voice  to  be 
heard.  "Get  off  your  shoes;  you'll  need  ever* 
toe  youVe  got,  to  hold  on  by  1  " 

"  I  think  it  too  unsafe,"  shouted  Benton. 

"Well,  I'm  goin',"  cried  Emma;  "you  kin  do 
76 


ON    THE   FLOATING    TREE        77 

as  you  please !  "  She  stood  upon  the  rocks  bal- 
ancing herself  with  her  arms,  and  staring  at  the 
whirling  eddies  which  almost  reached  her  feet. 
Benton  leaped  down  the  shore  and  struggled  upon 
the  causeway,  maintaining  himself  with  difficulty. 
"  Emma !  "  he  cried.  "  Come  back,  Emma  1  " 

"  Yous  air  clingin'  to  your  shoes,"  said  Emma 
scornfully,  looking  back.  "  I  reckon  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  to  live  an'  die  in  'em!  " 
This  closed  the  conversation.  It  required  all 
their  breath  and  energy  and  steadiness  of  nerves 
to  maintain  their  position  upon  the  wall,  against 
which  the  driftwood  beat  so  persistently.  They 
were  obliged  to  take  steps  of  great  length,  balanc- 
ing themselves  as  best  they  might.  The  stones 
upon  which  they  stood  trembled  and  sometimes 
were  dislodged  the  instant  they  were  left  behind. 
The  rain  grew  more  furious. 

Emma,  always  in  the  lead,  was  about  half 
across,  when  the  sheet  of  blinding  rain  whipped 
the  river  into  wilder  fury,  and  covered  the  top  of 
the  stoneway  with  a  slippery,  dangerous  coating. 
At  last  she  paused.  Between  her  and  the  next  jut- 
ting peak  of  stone  was  a  gulf  of  about  four  feet;  a 
gulf  which  now,  far  below,  showed  a  boiling, 
seething  arm  of  the  river. 

"  Look  out  now,"  she  shouted,  "  I'm  goin'  to 
jump !  Yous  be  keerful  when  yous  foller.  Yous 
won't  be  nothin'  if  yous  don't  min'  your  eye  when 
yous  air  takin'  this  here  leap." 


78  STORK'S   NEST 

She  bent  her  knees  with  the  accuracy  of  long 
training  and  sped  through  the  air.  Her  feet 
found  the  slippery  surface  of  the  next  peak,  and 
stumbled  and  slid  toward  the  edge.  The  limb  of 
a  tree  had  been  driven  across  the  wall,  at  about 
the  height  of  Emma's  waist.  She  clutched  at  it 
blindly  and  saved  herself.  The  trunk  of  the  tree 
from  which  the  limb  projected  lay  bumping  and 
grinding  on  the  up-stream  side  of  the  rock-heap. 

"  Here  I  air!  "  shouted  Emma  when  she  had 
regained  her  breath,  and  recovered  from  her 
momentary  fright,  for  at  the  instant  of  slipping 
she  had  believed  herself  lost.  "  Come  on,  an1 
look  out !  " 

Emma  climbed  over  the  high  branch,  with  an 
unconventional  heedlessness  of  details,  and,  slip- 
ping down  upon  the  farther  side,  waited.  Ben- 
ton,  who  had  been  eyeing  the  gulf  of  black,  foam- 
ing water  with  a  distrustful  look,  and  who  was 
conscious  of  his  poor  skill  as  a  jumper,  resolved 
not  to  hesitate  a  moment,  but  to  lessen  his  danger 
by  hurrying  through  with  it.  Accordingly,  as 
soon  as  he  saw  Emma  safe  upon  the  lucky  side, 
he  flung  away  his  umbrella,  and  leaped.  At  that 
moment  Emma  was  climbing  over  the  limb  of  the 
half-submerged  tree. 

In  the  instant  of  his  leap,  Benton  felt  that  he 
had  been  too  hurried,  that  he  had  dashed  into 
peril  without  calmly  gauging  the  exertion  needful 
for  success.  Perhaps  he  had  leaped  too  far,  or 


ON    THE   FLOATING    TREE        79 

not  far  enough.  He  heard  the  river  beneath  him, 
like  the  voice  of  death,  calling  his  name.  Or  was 
it  Emma's  agonized  scream?  Yes,  it  was  Emma's 
voice;  she  saw  he  had  jumped  too  hurriedly. 

His  feet  found  the  stone  heap  toward  which  he 
had  striven,  but  they  were  in  advance  of  his  body. 
Following  the  tendency  of  all  jumpers  who  alight 
in  that  manner,  his  feet,  without  his  volition,  beat 
hasty  steps  backward,  to  prevent  his  falling  upon 
the  back  of  his  head.  Thus  it  was  that,  although 
he  had  gained  the  firm  barricade,  in  his  endeavor 
to  preserve  his  equilibrium  he  ran  backward  down 
the  slope  and  fell  with  a  thud  into  the  stream.  It 
was  not  deep  here,  but  the  force  urging  his  body 
out  into  the  open  river  was  powerful.  He  had 
fallen  in  a  sitting  posture  between  two  pyramids 
and  the  water  was  at  his  neck.  In  the  helpless- 
ness of  one  unable  to  swim  he  clutched  blindly  at 
the  rocks  and  struggled  upon  his  knees  in  his  fierce 
effort  to  prevent  himself  from  being  swept  away. 
At  the  same  time  he  felt  himself  sinking;  he  was 
in  the  quicksands ! 

His  misfortune  had  come  in  a  briefness  of  time 
almost  incredible.  The  leap,  Emma's  scream,  his 
fall,  the  splash — the  beginning  and  the  ending 
were  hardly  separated  by  time.  Scarcely  had  he 
realized  that  he  was  fighting  for  his  life  in  the 
quicksands  before  there  was  added  a  new  danger. 
When  Emma  climbed  over  the  limb  of  the  tree, 
whose  trunk  quivered  in  the  river,  the  weight  of 


8o  STORK'S   NEST 

her  body  started  it  from  the  jutting  rock  against 
which  it  had  lodged.  As  she  slipped  down  upon 
the  farther  side,  with  the  ease  and  skill  of  a  tried 
climber,  the  limb  was  torn  away,  and  a  whirlpool, 
sucking  down  the  trunk,  turned  it  about  in  a  half- 
circle.  Then  the  wise  current  seized  the  great  tree 
and  with  unerring  accuracy  shot  it  at  the  gap  in 
the  wall  where  Benton  was  struggling. 

He  saw  it  coming  without,  being  able  to  get  out 
of  its  way.  He  had  struggled  to  his  feet,  but  he 
was  engulfed  to  the  knees  in  the  terrible  quick- 
sands, which  he  could  feel,  like  a  thing  of  life, 
clutching  hungrily  at  his  form.  The  tree  shot 
straight  toward  him,  its  long  branches  upreared 
as  if  to  avoid  the  imperfect  dam.  At  that  instant 
came  Emma's  terrified  voice,  shrieking  for  him  to 
catch  hold  of  the  branches. 

Benton's  wild  hands  found  the  neck  of  a  limb. 
Instantly  his  legs  were  jerked  violently  from  their 
imprisonment,  and  he  felt  himself  being  dragged 
through  the  water.  His  head  was  above  the  tide. 
His  arms  ached  painfully  from  the  wrench  they 
had  sustained,  and  he  feared  that  he  could  not  long 
maintain  his  hold  upon  the  quivering  support.  His 
eyelids  were  heavy  from  the  fierce  rain  which  beat 
upon  his  face;  he  did  not  seek  to  keep  them 
open. 

"  Steady,  now!  "  came  Emma's  voice,  near  at 
hand.  He  was  greatly  surprised.  Could  the  tree 
have  swung  back  to  the  stones?  He  felt  no  pause 


ON   THE   FLOATING    TREE        81 

in  its  bounding  course.  He  looked  about  wildly. 
No;  far  up  the  river  the  passage  at  the  ford  was 
visible,  growing  ever  dimmer  in  the  blinding  rain ; 
soon  it  would  be  lost  from  view.  He  turned  his 
head.  Astride  of  a  bough,  not  far  above  his  head, 
sat  Emma,  her  hair  whipped  in  wet  locks  about 
her  bare  neck,  her  sunbonnet  hanging  upon  her 
back,  limp  and  mis-shapen,  her  short  blue  calico 
dress  clinging  wet  and  close  to  her  rounded  form, 
as  if  it  had  been  put  on  with  fresh  paste. 

"Yous  'most  tuckered  out?"  shouted  Emma, 
who  was  panting  to  regain  her  breath.  "  Steady, 
now!" 

The  limb  which  she  rode  was  about  four  feet 
above  that  to  which  the  young  man  clung.  Emma, 
moving  with  great  caution,  for  the  tree  rocked 
violently,  worked  both  feet  over  on  the  same  side 
of  the  bough,  then  put  her  arms  about  it  and 
lowered  herself  slowly  to  the  bough  beneath. 
Her  weight  caused  the  limb  to  sink  in  the  water, 
and  Benton  was  almost  submerged. 

"  Look  out!  "  he  cried,  "  I  can't  hold  on  much 
longer." 

"  Steady,  now !  "  said  Emma,  pausing.  Her 
difficulty  was  to  let  go  the  limb  above  her  head 
and  keep  herself  from  falling  off  the  lower  branch. 
She  placed  the  soles  of  her  feet  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  resting-place,  grasped  at  the  bark  with  her 
toes,  opened  out  her  knees,  and  held  them  rigid. 
Then  suddenly  releasing  the  upper  limb,  she  fell 


82  STORK'S   NEST 

forward,  her  hands  grasping  for  the  lower,  while 
her  toes  maintained  her  securely  in  the  rear. 

"  Here  we  air,"  she  gasped.  Her  fall  plunged 
Benton's  head  under  the  surface. 

His  face  immediately  reappeared,  gasping  and 
white.  "  Emma !  "  he  panted,  "  I  think  I'm 
cramping." 

"  I'm  the  gal  that  can  do  for  yous,"  said 
Emma  with  more  confidence,  perhaps,  than  she 
really  felt. 

Holding  to  the  rough  bark  with  one  hand  and 
both  knees,  which  were  now  in  the  water,  she 
reached  down,  and  put  her  other  arm  about  him. 
"  Now !  "  she  gasped,  "  up  with  yous !  Can't  you 
kick?" 

She  pulled  upward  with  all  the  strength  she 
could  spare  from  maintaining  herself  in  her  pre- 
carious situation.  Benton  kicked  violently,  and 
soon  found  himself  across  the  limb.  "  There !  " 
cried  Emma,  "  now  look  out  how  yous  get  up.  I 
couldn't  do  that  ag'in — till  to-morrow.  Yous 
think  you  can  climb  up  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  you,  Emma !  " 

"  Well,  maybe  you  do  understand  trees,"  said 
Emma,  rising  cautiously,  "  but  you  don't  know 
nothin'  about  water,  do  yous?  " 

Benton's  smile  was  rather  mournful  as  he  fol- 
lowed her  to  the  upper  bough,  where  its  connec- 
tion with  the  parent  stem  formed  a  seat.  He  was 
dizzy  and  faint  from  his  recent  peril,  and  from 


ON    THE   FLOATING    TREE        83 

the  sight  of  the  banks,  apparently,  running  a  race 
with  each  other.  But  the  chill  air  and  their  wet 
condition  made  them  shiver  from  a  more  tangible 
cause.  The  rain  came  in  sheets  which  whipped 
the  river  till  it  foamed  from  shore  to  shore. 

"  She's  gittin'  deeper  ever*  minute,"  said 
Emma,  whose  voice  shook  from  the  chill,  "  an' 
we're  gittin  closter  ever'  minute  to  shore  enough 
Gran'  River.  'S  no  knowin'  where  we  will  go,  if 
we  live  to  git  thar." 

"  What  can  we  do?  "  asked  Benton,  who  sat  in 
the  crotch  securely,  and  who  did  his  utmost  to 
speak  steadily.  "  Ugh !  how  cold  it  is !  "  The 
long  branch  upon  which  he  sat  slanted  upward. 
He  rested  against  the  trunk,  but  Emma  clung  to 
the  upper  part,  not  so  secure,  and  yet  quite  daunt- 
less. The  rush  of  the  river  did  not  drown  their 
voices,  but  it  lent  a  strange  excitement  to  the  most 
trivial  word;  for  nothing  is  so  strange  as  the 
commonplace  in  the  midst  of  extraordinary  sur- 
roundings. 

" 1  never  was  colder  in  my  life,"  Emma  agreed, 
as  a  hand  on  either  side  of  her  clutched  at  the 
tapering  branch.  "  My  clothes  seem  to  be  hunt- 
ing up  new  places  to  git  me  ever'  minute.  If  this 
tree  holds  together  she  may  take  us  plumb  to  the 
Mizzoury  River  an'  down  to  New  Orleens, 
finally.  I  wisht  we's  thar  now,  for  I'd  like  a 
change  of  climate." 

"  Poor  child!  "  said  Benton,  forgetting  his  own 


84  STORK'S   NEST 

misery  at  sight  of  her  form  quivering  from  the 
cold,  "  I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you — and 
you  have  saved  my  life,  at  least,  so  far,"  he  added 
with  a  whimsical  smile. 

"  We  can  do  somethin',"  said  Emma  promptly. 
"  Le's  sit  together.  It's  pow'ful  hard  to  main- 
tain my  post  on  this  slant.  Care  if  I  slide  down 
against  you?  Both  of  us  is  losin'  an7  wastin'  what 
little  heat  is  left  to  our  bodies.  If  we  put  'em 
both  together,  somebody  might  git  warm.  I  ain't 
nothin'  but  a  little  gal,  nohow." 

"  Slide  down,  Emma !  "  cried  Benton,  beaming, 
and  forgetting  river,  rain  and  tree.  Emma  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  red  and  laughing;  then,  with 
a  shiver,  moved  cautiously  down  the  slippery 
branch.  As  Benton  was  in  the  crotch  at  the 
beginning  of  the  slant,  her  weight  was  thrown 
upon  him.  He  put  his  arm  about  the  dripping 
form. 

"  Now,  don't  do  that !  "  cried  Emma,  drawing 
away  violently,  and  thereby  causing  both  almost 
to  fall  into  the  river. 

1  You  have  nothing  to  hold  to  but  me,"  Benton 
gasped  as  he  recovered  his  hold  on  the  trunk. 
"  And  you  are  nothing  but  a  little  girl.  Of 
course,  I  would  n't  think  of  warming  a  young 
lady." 

4  You  tell  me  this,  then,"  said  Emma,  begin- 
ning to  laugh,  "  do  you  consider  yourself  a  man, 
or  a  kid?" 


ON    THE   FLOATING    TREE        85 

"  We  are  just  children,"  said  Benton,  smiling 
in  spite  of  his  wretched  plight. 

"  Then  I'll  be  a  little  gal,  an'  nothin'  but  it," 
cried  Emma.  "  Look  at  this !  "  She  put  her  arm 
about  his  neck.  "  Now,  you  can  hold  around  me. 
We'll  scrooch  up  close  like  two  little  chickuns  left 
out  in  the  rain." 

In  spite  of  the  cold  blast  and  the  colder  rain, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  their  destination,  they  felt 
comfort  in  the  warmth  of  each  other's  innocent 
embrace.  The  wet,  golden  hair  which  rested 
against  his  cheek  was  not  so  chill  as  its  absence 
would  have  proved.  But  still  they  shivered, 
watching  the  seething  river  which  grew  wider  and 
wider. 

"  Here  we  go!  "  Emma  said  suddenly,  as  they 
clung  to  each  other  in  sympathetic  discomfort. 
Her  voice  had  a  cheerful  ring,  at  which  he  could 
not  but  wonder.  "  What  will  gran'pop  think?" 
Then  she  began  to  sob. 

"  Poor  Emma !  "  said  Benton,  distressed. 
;<  We  will  reach  home  safe,  somehow.  Then  we 
will  laugh  at  all  this  wretchedness." 

"  Le's  laugh  at  it  now,"  said  Emma,  gasping 
and  lifting  her  face.  "  It  will  do  us  more  good 
now  than  it  ever  will  afterwards.  Say,  Ben! 
you've  clung  to  your  shoes  to  the  last,  hain't  you? 
Say!  my  nose  is  jest  as  cold!  See  here!  "  The 
golden  hair  was  lifted  from  his  neck,  and  her  nose 
was  rubbed  against  his  cheek. 


86  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Oh !  "  said  Benton,  who  was  not  yet  used  to 
all  of  Emma's  little  ways. 

"Yap,"  said  Emma,  "now  waVt  it  cold? 
Did  yous.  care?  La,  bless  my  heart,  if  I  hain't 
forgot  to  say  you  sence  leavin'  the  Storks's !  Did 
you  care  when  I  done  that?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Benton.     "  I  guess  not." 

u  How  cold  air  your  nose?  "  inquired  the  other 
with  interest. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Benton  somewhat  con- 
strainedly. 

"  Well,  neither  do  I,"  remarked  Emma,  looking 
at  him  with  sudden  suspicion,  "  but  they  hain't 
nothin'  like  findin'  out.  I  hope  you — did  you 
hear  me  say  '  you  '  ? — hain't  goin'  to  be  as  big  for 
a  kid  as  yous  air  little  for  a  man." 

Benton,  feeling  her  clasp  loosening  about  him, 
solemnly  rubbed  his  nose  against  her  uplifted 
cheek. 

11  It's  of  a  piece  with  mine,"  said  Emma,  nest- 
ling down  with  satisfaction.  He  tried  to  make 
some  response,  but  his  teeth  chattered  so  that  the 
words  were  bit  in  two  and  he  gave  it  up  with  a 
mournful  smile.  "  You  poor  boy!  "  cried  Emma, 
giving  him  a  hearty  squeeze,  "  what  would  you 
do  without  your  Emmy?  But,  la!  how  this  ole 
tree  is  beginnin'  to  bounce!  An'  jest  listen  at  that! 
What  on  airth  can  it  be?  " 

Above  the  roar  and  boom  of  the  river  and  the 
sharp  hissing  of  the  rain,  came  a  distant  sound. 


"  Here  we  go,"    Emmy  said  suddenly,  as  they  clung  to  each 
other  in  sympathetic  discomfort. 


ON    THE   FLOATING    TREE        87 

"That  must  be  Cat  Crick !"  cried  Emma. 
"  She  empties  into  here,  som'ers.  D'  ye  reckon 
we've  come  that  fur?  " 

As  Benton  had  never  before  heard  of  Cat  Creek, 
he  ventured  no  opinion.  It  was  well  that  behind 
them  a  small  branch  projected  which  served  as  a 
back  to  their  slippery  seat,  for  the  tree  began  to 
bound  and  throb  like  an  engine  at  work  in  the 
storm.  The  huge  trunk  pointed  down-stream,  and 
their  weight  being  thrown  upon  the  branches 
helped  to  keep  it  well  elevated,  like  the  prow  of  a 
boat. 

Driftwood  rode  in  furious  haste  and  the  cur- 
rent was  sometimes  almost  hidden  from  sight 
by  great  patches  of  fresh  earth  and  matted 
grasses.  The  sound  grew  nearer  and  presently, 
through  the  whipping  sheets  of  rain,  they  saw  the 
farther  bank  recede  and  the  yellow  torrent  of 
another  stream  rushing  toward  them. 

"  Hold  tight!  "  shouted  Emma,  but  Benton  did 
not  heed  the  warning.  Suddenly  the  tree  shot  for- 
ward and  the  great  trunk  was  cast  upward  into 
the  air,  its  dripping,  snake-like  roots  pointing  at 
the  sky. 

The  two  streams  had  rushed  together  in  a  giant 
struggle  for  mastery,  their  swollen  torrents 
viciously  lashing  the  branches  to  which  Benton 
and  Emma  clung.  They  were  in  the  river,  fight- 
ing for  their  lives.  On  the  seething  waves  they 
rose  and  fell,  while  the  tree  dipped  up  and  down 


88  STORK'S   NEST 

like  a  great  river  bird  diving  along  the  surface. 
The  water  closed  over  their  white  faces  and  strain- 
ing arms,  while  the  deafening  boom  and  roar  of 
river  and  tempest  gave  tones  of  fury  and  vindic- 
tive triumph  to  the  voice  of  threatening  death. 
As  their  faces  came  to  the  surface,  a  cry  burst  from 
the  girl's  pale  lips,  and  the  young  man  recognized 
the  accent  of  despair.  It  was  impossible  for  him 
to  render  her  assistance,  for  he  was  scarcely  able 
to  maintain  his  own  grasp  upon  the  limb  which 
jerked  and  swayed  at  each  moment. 

"  Benton !  "  came  Emma's  choking  voice. 
"  Oh !  I  am  drowning,  Benton !  " 

"  Courage !  "  cried  Benton,  grinding  his  teeth 
at  his  impotency.  "  Oh,  if  I  were  strong  enough 
for  us  both !  " 

In  the  meantime  they  had  passed  the  junction 
of  the  streams,  and  the  boiling  of  the  waves  sud- 
denly ceased.  The  trunk  fell  back  into  the  water, 
and  the  voyagers  were  jerked  violently  out  of  the 
river  up  into  the  driving  rain.  Emma,  panting, 
clung  to  Benton  hysterically. 

"  Oh,  Ben !  "  she  stammered,  "  your  Emmy  was 
'most  gone  up,  that  time !  Don't  say  nothin'  for 
a  spell."  She  rested  upon  his  bosom,  breathing 
heavily.  His  own  bosom  heaved  from  recent  exer- 
tion but  his  heart  leaped  with  thanksgiving.  It 
was  some  time  before  they  became  composed.  At 
last  he  gave  utterance  to  a  fear  which  had  been 
growing  stronger  upon  him. 


ON    THE    FLOATING    TREE        89 

"Emma,  I'm  getting  so  stiff,  I'm  afraid  I'll 
give  out,  if  we  are  not  cast  ashore  before  long. 
My  arms  are  beginning  to  cramp,  Emma.  If  I 
should  fall  off,  don't  hold  to  me;  I  would  only 
drag  you  into  the  water." 

"  We'll  have  to  tie  ourselves  to  the  tree,"  said 
Emma,  "  before  night  comes.  Let  me  rub  your 
arm — this  coat  is  nothin'  but  a  hindrance,  an' 
never  was!  If  we  went  to  sleep,  sittin'  up  here 
loose,  we'd  never  wake  up  in  a  bed  ag'in !  " 

"  But  how  can  we  tie  ourselves  on?  "  he  asked, 
submitting  his  arm  to  be  treated.  "  If  this  tree 
had  vines  clinging  to  it — but  with  no  rope " 

"  I'll  jest  natchurly  have  to  tear  my  skirt  into 
strips,"  Emma  explained,  "  an'  tie  'em  together. 
Then  I'll  fasten  yous  to  the  tree,  an'  me  to  yous, 
an'  we'll  be  like  turkeys  hanged  up  to  freeze  for 
to  keep  'em  sweet." 

"  But  if  you  should  do  that,"  Benton  objected, 

"  you'd  have  no " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  as  to  that,"  she  assured  him. 
"  It  hain't  doin'  me  no  good,  nohow.  I'd  be  lots 
comfortabler  an'  lots  freer  without  it  this  minute. 
The  souse  in  the  river,  an'  the  beatin'  rain  makes 
it  hug  me  till  I'm  jest  sick  of  the  nasty,  clammy, 
sneakin'  feel  of  it." 

No  more  was  said  for  some  time.  The  rubbing 
had  relieved  his  arms,  and  in  spite  of  all,  there 
was  a  certain  feeling  of  exhilaration  from  the 
trustful  weight  of  Emma's  body,  from  her  embrac- 


90  STORK'S   NEST 

ing  arm,  from  her  clinging  hair.  In  his  inmost 
heart  he  strove  to  be  true  to  his  promise.  He  was 
just  a  boy,  she  just  a  girl.  And  yet  his  eyes  often 
left  the  threatening  river  to  rest  upon  the  beau- 
tiful face  nestling  upon  his  shoulder.  Its  exquisite 
complexion  was  brought  out  in  charming  relief 
against  the  dull  gray  of  the  sky.  The  golden  hair 
was  the  touch  of  light  in  a  scene  of  darkness.  The 
mouth,  sensitive  and  molded  in  soft  perfection, 
seemed  curved  in  the  bow  of  innocence.  As  he  sat 
looking  upon  her  beauty,  strangely  thrilled, 
strangely  happy  in  forgetfulness  of  everything 
else,  the  long  lashes  lifted,  her  great  dark  eyes 
looked  straight  into  his.  There  was  no  sudden 
start  on  her  part,  no  flush  of  consciousness.  Her 
gaze  was  half-tender,  half-playful,  and  wholly 
composed,  while  her  lips  parted  in  a  smile  of  good 
comradeship. 

"  Here  we  go !  "  she  said  lightly. 

Benton  looked  away,  as  he  said  abruptly,  "  I 
wonder  if  it's  getting  near  night-time?" 

"  Mercy,  no!  "  said  Emma,  still  resting  quietly, 
with  her  eyes  turned  up  toward  his  now  averted 
face.  "  The  day  is  jest  fairly  gittin'  its  hand  in. 
You  hain't  hungry,  air  you?  " 

"  Hungry !  "  he  exclaimed.     "  No !  " 

Emma  laughed  at  him.  "  Me,  nuther.  If  any- 
body was  to  bring  me  victuals  right  here,  I'd 
throw  'em  in  the  river,  would  n't  you,  Ben? 
They'd  better  not.  Say!  look  at  me  and  tell  me 


ON    THE    FLOATING    TREE        91 

— they  ain't  nothin'  down  thar  to  see  but  water — 
tell  me  why  you  come  back  to  the  dinin'-room  after 
you'd  left  me  thar  to  sulk." 

Benton  slowly  turned  and  met  her  bright  gaze. 
His  countenance  was  composed.  The  admiration 
which  she  had  surprised  in  his  look  was  gone  and, 
in  its  place,  was  pity  and  disappointment,  for  he 
had  forgotten.  "  And  you  will  tell  me  why  you 
were  crying  ?"  he  asked. 

Her  eyes  fell. 

"  Why  do  you  look  down  at  the  river?"  he 
said  with  sudden  playfulness.  ;t  There's  nothing 
down  there  but  water!  " 

Her  face  flashed.  "  Ben,  I  did  n't  know  you 
could  do  that!  You're  comin*  on  jest  fine.  I 
was  cry  in'  because — oh,  jest  because  I  am  Emmy, 
I  reckon."  Her  voice  became  imperious :  "  Tell 
me,  now,  why  you  went  away!  " 

"  The  old  house  seemed  to  smother  me,"  said 
Benton.  "  It — and  the  thought  of  your  throwing 
yourself  away  on  'Bije  Stork."  She  drew  away 
from  him.  "  You  see,"  he  continued,  "  I  had 
thought  you  a  different  kind  of  a  girl,  not  one 
who  would  sell  herself  for  money!  " 

Emma,  with  a  very  red  face,  worked  her  way 
up  the  slanting  bough  till  she  was  some  distance 
removed.  There  was  silence  between  them  till 
the  wood  was  passed,  and  rolling  prairies,  diver- 
sified by  hillocks,  stretched  on  either  side.  The 
river  had  overrun  its  banks,  sending  vicious  swirls 


92  STORK'S   NEST 

of  yellow  water  over  adjoining  corn-fields.  He 
watched  the  crimsoned  face  of  the  girl,  wondering 
that  the  color  did  not  subside  as  the  distance 
increased,  and,  in  spite  of  the  consciousness  that 
he  had  spoken  for  her  good,  he  began  to  miss  her 
comradeship  acutely. 

"  Emma,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  slide  down 
again !  " 

She  looked  at  him  from  over  her  shoulder,  and 
rubbed  her  cheek  as  if  to  drive  away  the  red. 
"  We  was  jest  boy  and  gal,"  she  said  reproach- 
fully, "  an1  you  had  to  bring  up  him!  I'm  afraid 
you'll  eat  me  up." 

"  No,  I  won't !  "  cried  Benton  remorsefully. 
"  Come  down,  Emma,  that's  a  good  little  girl!  " 

She  hesitated,  then  extended  her  feet  before 
her,  and  wriggled  down  the  bough  to  his  side. 
"  Here  I  am  at  home,  once  more,"  she  said.  "  I 
wonder  if  you  know  how  you  looked  at  me,  just 


now! 


"  How  could  I  ever  look  at  you  except — but  I 
am  sorry,  Emma.  Do  forgive  me !  " 

"  Why,  bless  your  heart !  "  cried  Emma,  rest- 
ing her  streaming  locks  upon  his  shoulder  and 
looking  into  his  pleading  face,  "  you  must  n't  talk 
to  your  little  gal  that  way;  it  '11  spoil  her.  Little 
gals  must  n't  have  their  pardons  begged.  We 
must  stick  to  our  brother-an'-sister  program,  Ben, 
an'  not  git  up  no  side  plays  like  that.  An* 
now " 


ON    THE   FLOATING    TREE        93 

A  turn  in  the  river  brought  them  in  sight  of  a 
strange  dark  object  which  had  become  lodged 
among  some  inundated  trees,  and  which  was 
swinging  free  with  violent  tugs  and  wrenches. 

"  A  house !  "  Benton  exclaimed  as  it  became 
dislodged.  "  We'll  run  into  it  if  our  tree  does  n't 
drag  more  on  the  bottom." 

"A  floatin'  house!"  cried  Emma.  "Why,  I 
know  that  house  as  well  as  if  I'd  hired  men  to 
build  it  an'  had  then  to  go  to  build  it  myself !  It's 
the  Glover  house,  whar  them  Storkses  went 
campin'  on  the  fish-fry.  I  never  thought  to  see 
her  boatin'  along  Grand  River  like  a  great  big 
cork.  Look  out,  thar!  We're  goin'  faster'n  her. 
Say!  We're  goin'  to  run  into  her  boddaciously ! 
Lookout!  Hold  tight!" 

The  trunk  of  the  tree  crashed  against  the  side 
of  the  two-story  frame  house,  which  rode  the  water 
at  a  rather  steep  slant.  A  long  limb  growing  at 
right  angles  to  the  trunk  caught  around  the  corner 
of  the  building.  There  was  a  violent  wrench  and 
jar,  and  a  sound  of  grinding  timbers.  Then  the 
tree  and  house  swept  on  together. 

"-Hello,  Mr.  House!  "  shouted  Emma.  "  Glad 
to  see  yous.  Air  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Glover  't 
'ome?" 

1  The  tree  is  slipping  away  from  it,"  said  Ben- 
ton  excitedly.  "  Let  us  get  in  the  house,  out  of 
the  rain.  Pretty  soon  it  '11  be  too  late." 

"  Hurray!  "  cried  Emma  in  sudden  joy  at  the 


94  STORK'S   NEST 

prospect  of  shelter.  The  entire  second-story  of 
the  cottage  was  free  from  the  water.  The  greater 
part  of  the  lower  story  was  submerged,  but  a  win- 
dow, only  the  upper  half  of  which  was  above  the 
tide,  showed  them  a  ladder  nailed  to  the  inner 
side,  leading  aloft.  "  But  won't  it  feel  creepy, 
though,  crawlin'  through  the  little  hole  of  the 
window,  an'  sloshin'  up  the  ladder!  Once  up, 
howsoever,  we  can  keep  dry,  though  warm  we  may 
never  be  ag'in!  Now  I'll  help  yous,  Ben.  It 
don't  make  no  differ'nce  about  you  an'  yous,  now ! 
Stiddy!  Ole  Mr.  Tree's  gittin'  loose.  Now  I've 
got  to  lay  along  this  branch  an'  reach  over  an' 
bu'st  in  the  window-pane.  Hold  tight  to  my  foot, 
so  if  I  don't  grab  on  to  the  sash,  I  won't  fall  in 
the  river." 

"  Emma,"  said  Benton  shuddering  at  the  space 
which  was  growing  between  their  branch  of  the 
tree  and  the  side  of  the  house,  "maybe  you'd 
better  not  try  it." 

"  Yes,  I  will,  though,"  panted  Emma,  who  lay 
at  her  full  length  along  the  branch,  preparing  to 
make  a  desperate  lunge  toward  the  window. 
1  You  git  hold  of  that  foot,  Ben,  no  time  to  lose. 
Hold  tight — you  hain't  doin'  no  good!  Grab  on 
to  the  hull  leg.  Smash  goes  the  window !  I  hain't 
done  nothin'  but  cut  my  hand." 

"  Oh,  Emma !  "  cried  Benton,  his  heart  bleed- 
ing in  sympathy  with  her  fingers,  "  what  can 
I  do?" 


ON    THE   FLOATING    TREE        95 

"  You  can  le'  go  of  me,  now — yous  hain't  took 
hold  for  life."  She  splashed  into  the  water  and 
grasped  the  ladder  with  one  hand,  while  she  held 
the  other  strong  bare  arm  up  to  Benton.  "  Gim  me 
your  hand.  Come  on,  quick!  I  don't  want  to  lose 
no  passengers." 


VI 

IN    THE    FLOATING    HOUSE 

EMMA  and  Benton  were  clinging  to  the 
ladder  when  the  tree  swept  clear  of  the 
floating  house.  The  girl  was  on  the  upper 
part,  hastily  regaining  the  breath  it  had  cost  her 
to  help  her  companion  from  the  slippery  bough. 
Benton  was  waist  deep  in  the  water  which  covered 
the  floor  and  the  greater  part  of  one  wall,  but  he 
was  so  chilled  by  wind  and  rain  that  he  felt  no  dis- 
comfort from  the  new  bath.  The  house  swept 
along  at  such  a  slant  that  the  opposite  window  was 
completely  buried  from  sight.  A  dim,  dusky  light 
showed  them  the  black  water  upon  which  floated 
poles,  boxes  and  other  strange  boats  left  behind 
by  the  camping-party.  The  ladder  inclined  to  the 
surface  of  the  water  so  they  were  forced  to  cling 
to  it  with  most  of  their  weight  thrown  upon  their 
hands. 

After  a  brief  period  of  loud  breathing  on 
Emma's  part,  and  expectant  waiting  on  Benton's, 
the  girl  with  pain  and  difficulty  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  ladder  and  pushed  up  the  trap-door,  crying: 
"  Make  yourself  't  'ome !  " 

96 


IN    THE   FLOATING   HOUSE       97 

"  What's  that?  "  came  an  alarmed  voice  from 
the  room  overhead.  "  Who's  thar?  Git  out!  " 

"  If  it  ain't  Jim  Whitlicks !  "  shouted  Emma, 
scrambling  up  through  the  square  opening. 
"Who's  with  yous,  Jim?  Come  on,  Ben!" 

"Why,  hello,  Emmy!"  said  the  nasal  voice, 
which  sounded  with  sudden  gladness  in  spite  of  a 
constitutional  whine,  "  nobody  hain't  't  'ome  but 
me.  How  did  yous  git  here?  " 

"  Jest  come  a-whoopin'  down  Grand  River  on 
a  ole  oak  tree,"  said  Emma,  with  great  heartiness. 
"  Come  on  up,  Benny;  'tain't  nobody  but  jest  Jim 
Whitlicks." 

Benton  gained  the  slanting  floor  and  discovered 
a  boy  of  about  Emma's  age.  He  found  Jim  a 
thin,  stooping  lad,  the  juices  of  youth  apparently 
dried  out.  He  had  a  long,  narrow  face,  an 
apologetic,  drooping  nose,  a  markedly  retreating 
brow  over  which  some  tufts  of  hay-colored  hair 
stood  forth  in  independent  groups,  and  a  yellow, 
wrinkled,  toughened  skin  which  reminded  one  of 
dried  peaches.  His  eyes  were  small,  uneasy  and 
despondent.  His  teeth  seemed  to  have  more  gum 
than  ordinary,  and  his  narrow  shoulders  were 
drawn  up  into  his  coat  as  if  he  feared  he  was  tak- 
ing up  too  much  room  in  the  world.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  homemade  suit  of  jeans  which  showed 
a  goodly  assortment  of  dyes.  The  trouser  legs 
were  too  small  and  too  short,  and,  from  their 
chafing  extremities,  socks  which  refused  to  be 


98  STORK'S   NEST 

longer  confined  showed  their  gray  and  yellow 
stripes.  He  wore  no  coat  or  collar,  and  the 
creased  neck,  with  its  large  Adam's  apple,  stood 
forth  with  more  than  usual  length  from  the  dark 
blue  shirt. 

"  I  reckon,"  said  Jim  in  his  dispirited  and  dis- 
piriting nasal  whine,  "  yous  air  the  feller  the 
Storkses  is  lookin'  fur." 

"  Yes,  I  am  Benton  Cabot.  How  do  you  do, 
Jim?" 

They  shook  hands.  "  I'm  porely,"  said  Jim. 
"  I  mean  as  to  sperits;  to  appearances  I'm  well 
enough  bodily,  but  that  may  be  deceivin'." 

1  You  see,"  Emma  explained,  as  they  stood 
insecurely  upon  the  rocking  deck,  "  it's  always 
preyin'  on  Jim's  mind  that  he  has  a  ghost  for  his 
daddy,  trompin'  about  at  nights." 

"  Yap,"  said  Jim,  "  yous  talk  about  the  trials 
an'  tribulations  of  orphans.  But  what  are  all  the 
rest  to  havin'  my  ghost  throwed  up  to  me  day  'n' 
night?  I  can't  scercely  rec'lect  pa;  I  was  so  bodily 
young  when  he  died,  an'  now  't  he  's  been  so  long 
dead  an'  me  so  long  lookin'  out  for  myself,  it's 
hard  on  me  to  be  expectin'  ever'  minute  to  make 
his  acquaintance  as  a  ghost.  But  no  use  slippin' 
an'  slidin'  around  this  here  floor;  we  may  be  jest 
as  miser'ble  sittin'  down,  but  we'll  be  safer  of 
broken  bones.  This  here  upper  aidge  of  the  floor 
is  the  best,  'cause  yous  don't  feel  you're  weightin' 
down  the  hull  edifice  in  the  river-bottom." 


77V    THE    FLOATING   HOUSE       99 

Jim  cautiously  seated  himself  against  the  ele- 
vated wall,  his  thin  legs  sloping  down  toward  the 
opposite  window.  Each  story  consisted  of  but 
one  room.  There  was  no  carpet  on  the  dusty,  cob- 
webbed  floor.  Around  Jim  were  gathered  lunch- 
baskets,  an  ax,  a  gun  and  a  roll  of  bedclothes. 
The  room  was  otherwise  empty.  Benton  seated 
himself  at  some  distance  from  Jim,  and,  in  a  half- 
reclining  position,  propped  his  head  upon  his 
hand  and  studied  his  new  acquaintance  quizzically. 

Emma,  still  standing,  her  feet  set  well  apart  to 
insure  safety,  looked  down  upon  the  disconsolate 
orphan  in  sunny  good  humor.  "  Well,  ole  Jim," 
she  said  affectionately,  "  it's  mighty  nice  to  find 
yous  jest  the  same  ole  Jim.  What  did  yous  think 
when  the  tree  run  into  your  house?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know  it  was  a  tree,"  whined  the 
other,  "  but  I  knowed  it  were  a  misfortune  of 
some  kind,  an',  as  I  was  lookin'  for  it,  it  did  n't 
take  me  by  surprise.  Set  down,  Emmy,  we  kin 
see  out  the  op'site  window  an'  see  ourselves  when 
we're  ran  into  somethin'  and  killed,  if  it  happens 
before  night-time." 

"  We're  not  goin'  to  be  ran  into — nothin',"  said 
Emma,  seating  herself  at  Benton's  feet. 

"  Well,  I'm  expectin'  it,"  said  Jim.  "  That's 
my  practice.  An'  then,  if  the  wust  comes — which 
it  giner'ly  do,  now,  giner'ly  speakin' — I'm  ready 
fur  it." 

"  I'd    rather    be    surprised    occasionally,"    re- 


ioo  STORK'S   NEST 

marked  Benton  dryly,  "  than  to  keep  myself 
unhappy  all  the  time." 

"  If  your  pa  was  a  ghost,"  returned  Jim,  "  I 
calkerlate  you'd  speak  different." 

"  Besides,"  remarked  Emma,  "  Jim  hain't 
unhappy.  He  jest  natchur'ly  enjoys  his  antici- 
pations." 

"  Now,  Jim,  listen  to  me,"  said  Benton 
earnestly.  "  Don't  you  know  there  are  no  such 
things  as  ghosts?  The  day  of  seriously  believing 
in  them  passed  away  with  the  crazy  superstition 
about  witches.  You've  studied  about  the  New 
England  delusion ;  you  don't  think  they  were  right 
in  their  beliefs  of  black  cats  and  old  women! 
Somebody  is  imposing  on  you,  somebody  who  is 
representing  himself  as  a  ghost  just  to  scare  you. 
Don't  you  suppose  that,  if  people  came  back  after 
death,  good  mothers  and  fathers  would  be  the 
first  to  make  the  journey?  " 

"  I  guess  it  hain't  the  best  as  can  come  back," 
said  Jim  doggedly,  "  fur  they  would  n't  be  no  call 
fur  them  to  change  quarters,  bein'  satisfied  where 
they  was.  But  I  think  it's  the  most  endurin'. 
That's  how  Hiram  Garrett  places  it.  I  don't 
blame  yous,  Ben,  for  bein'  dubious,  as  you  hain't 
no  ghost  in  your  own  fambly;  an'  I  only  hope 
yous  won't  meet  mine  of  a  dark  night." 

"  He's  already  saw  him,"  interrupted  Emma. 
"  But,  fur  goodness'  sake,  le's  talk  about  flesh 
an'  blood !  Ain't  we  lonesome  enough  without  all 


IN    THE   FLOATING   HOUSE      101 

this?  Tell  us  how  come  you  to  be  a-house  boatin', 
Jimmy." 

"  It  was  this  way,"  Jim  drawled  with  a  sniffle. 
"  We  was  campin'  on  Cat  Crick,  as  we  sot  out  to 
do,  an'  more  mosquitoes  you  never  see,  I  reckon; 
I  know  I  never  did,  an'  if  yous  hed  been  thar 
you'd  thought  that  was  a  flesh-an'-blood  subject. 
Well,  snakes,  too,  was  awful.  We  see  clouds 
a-b'ilin'  an'  poppin'  an'  agitatin',  an'  word  come 
that  they'd  been  a  waterspout  up  north,  an'  it  was 
still  a-spoutin';  an'  ever'thin'  was  risin',  an'  gittin' 
ready  to  drown  us  out.  So  the  Storkses  an' 
Glovers  an'  Tuckermores  and  Stones  took  out  an* 
leaved  me  in  care  of  grub  an'  property.  They 
'lowed  to  come  for  me  when  they'd  settled  at  some 
place  of  safety;  at  least  they  said  they  did.  But  it 
rained  so  they  could  n't  of,  if  so  intended.  I  jest 
stuck  to  this  ramshacklin'  ole  shanty;  it  leakin'  so 
I  was  like  a  bed  of  flowers  an'  the  roof  like  a  gar- 
den-sprinkler." 

u  That's  so,  Jim,"  said  Emma,  who  had  been 
shifting  her  position  often  to  avoid  leaks, 
"  though  I  never  knowed  yous  to  be  like  a  flower 
bed  before;  far  otherwise,  Jim!  Go  on!  " 

"  Well,  as  I  say,  I  jest  let  the  water  trickle  down 
the  back  of  my  neck  an'  I  jest  says  to  it,  l  Go 
ahead,  I  could  n't  be  more  miser'ble,  nohow !  ' 
Well,  the  hardest  downpour  finally  ceased  an'  I 
come  up  here  an'  dropped  off,  an'  when  I  woke 
up  I  was  floatin'.  I  catched  up  what  few  things 


102  STORK'S   NEST 

yous  see  here  before  the  water  sp'iled  'em.  If 
anybody  wants  a  cheer,  go  down  below  an1  take 
your  pick.  Yous  see,  Ben,"  he  explained,  "  this 
house  wa'n't  lived  in  by  nobody;  it  were  the 
Glovers'  campin'  outpost." 

"  That's  'Bije's  gun,  ain't  it?  "  Emma  asked. 

"  Yap.  He  hain't  been  with  us  much,  fust  or 
last.  'Bije  he  comes  an'  goes,  but  he  don't  never 
stay.  Say!  Air  your  full  name  Benton  Cabot?  " 

The  young  man  acknowledged  the  name. 

"  Well,"  observed  Jim,  "  Benton  were  a  great 
statesman,  an'  Cabot  a  great  explorer,  an'  you'll 
have  to  be  both  to  keep  up  with  'Bije  Stork!  " 

A  silence  ensued.  Benton  found  no  escape  from 
a  certain  sinister  impression  formed  upon  his  mind 
by  'Bije  Stork,  the  man  he  had  never  seen.  Emma, 
though  she  intended  to  be  his  wife;  Hiram  Gar- 
rett,  though  he  must  look  upon  him  as  a  suitable 
groom  for  his  granddaughter;  and  Jim  Whitlicks, 
though  living  in  the  same  house  with  him,  all 
helped  to  strengthen  this  impression.  The  gun, 
in  a  manner,  seemed  to  symbolize  'Bije  in  secrecy 
and  power.  People  were  afraid  of  him,  people 
feared  to  penetrate  his  mystery  of  the  Snake 
Room.  An  aversion  for  the  owner  of  the  gun 
came  strong  upon  him,  and,  as  Benton  shrank 
from  the  thought  of  'Bije,  he  found  it  harder  than 
ever  to  conceal  his  disappointment  in  Emma. 
But  this  feeling  had  assumed  a  new  form.  Their 
association  in  danger,  and  his  better  understand- 


IN    THE   FLOATING   HOUSE      103 

ing  of  her  character,  robbed  his  heart  of  all  hard- 
ness. Instead,  a  deep  sadness  weighed  heavily 
upon  him  as  he  looked  at  the  girl  lying  at  his  feet. 
Her  back  was  toward  him  as  she  gazed  through 
the  window,  her  elbow  upon  the  floor,  her  chin  in 
her  hand  and  the  wet  hair  wound  in  a  coil  of  dulled 
gold  over  her  shoulder.  It  was  not,  however,  the 
charm  of  face  and  form  and  the  untrained  grace 
of  her  repose  which  moved  him ;  it  was  his  insight 
into  her  innocent  though  ignorant  heart,  her 
shapeless  girl's  dream,  and  the  dark  future  which 
she  believed  so  rosy-hued.  It  grew  darker.  The 
tipping  window  showed  them  that  the  desolate 
landscape  was  fading  away  in  a  blur  of  gray  and 
black. 

Suddenly  Jim  cried:  "  Thar  it  is !  That's  what 
I Ve  been  lookin'  fur !  " 

The  words  had  hardly  left  his  lips  before  the 
house  was  driven  with  a  crash  upon  a  tree  grow- 
ing at  the  margin  of  an  island.  The  island  was 
now  entirely  submerged,  and  the  tree,  buried  to 
its  knees  in  the  foaming  waters,  seemed  clutching 
at  the  floating  house  to  save  itself  from  drowning. 
There  was  a  terrific  jar  and  wrench  and  for  a 
moment  it  appeared  as  if  the  house  would  be  torn 
apart.  All  three  were  thrown  together  against 
the  lower  wall,  and  before  they  could  regain  their 
feet,  the  house  had  been  shot  to  one  side  by  an 
angry  current  which  the  island  split  in  two.  It 
sailed  out  over  an  inundated  orchard,  clear  of  the 


io4  STORK'S   NEST 

main  stream.  Two  apple  trees  held  out  their  arms 
to  embrace  the  house,  and  it  floated  straight  toward 
them,  became  tightly  wedged  in  the  upper 
branches,  and  stopped,  the  lower  still  scraping 
upon  the  ground. 

"Here  we  air!"  cried  Emma  exultingly.  A 
great  lake  of  water  appeared  on  all  sides,  but  the 
trees  showed  them  that  it  was  of  no  considerable 
depth.  "  As  soon's  the  water's  sank,  we  can  jest 
step  out  and  walk  some'rs.  When  all  the  stored- 
up  water  has  ran  through  Biley's  bu'sted  dam  it's 
boun'  to  fall.  One  thing  we  can  do  before 
pitch  dark;  we  can  sample  these  here  picnic- 
baskets." 

4  Yap,"  said  Jim  gloomily,  "  we  must  eat  even 
in  the  presence  of  sorrow  an'  death.  Fall  to, 
Emmy." 

"  Can  you  eat,  Ben?  "  inquired  Emma,  looking 
into  his  face  thoughtfully,  then  beginning  to  open 
one  of  the  baskets.  "  I'm  afraid  you  don't  feel 
well,  you  look  so  solemn!  "  She  arranged  paper 
dishes  upon  the  floor. 

"  I  am  quite  well,"  said  Benton  quietly,  seeking 
to  regain  his  old  manner,  "  but  I  have  n't  thought 
of  being  hungry." 

44  Then  smell  this,"  said  Emma,  holding  a  dish 
of  ham  close  to  his  nose.  44  Now,  what  do  you 
think?" 

44  Git  it  out,"  said  Jim.  <4 1  had  already  stuffed 
when  you-all  come  aboard,  but  I  can  allers  eat 


77V    THE   FLOATING   HOUSE      105 

ag'in.  Say,  Emmy,  I  believe  I've  found  out  what 
I've  got." 

He  was  reclining  upon  the  floor  once  more,  and 
now  held  open  an  almanac  just  drawn  from  his 
pistol  pocket. 

"  Le's  see,"  said  Emma  with  interest,  crawling 
to  his  side.  "  Is  they  a  picture  of  it?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Jim  hastily.  "  Yous  stay 
where  yous  are,  Emmy.  I've  been  tryin'  to  keep 
dry  all  this  time,  an'  you're  jest  tricklin'  at  ever' 
pore!" 

"  All  right,"  said  Emma,  in  the  greatest  good 
humor,  as  she  slid  back  to  the  baskets.  "  Me  an' 
Ben  will  have  to  stick  together,  bein'  of  the  same 
dampness;  won't  we,  Ben?"  She  gave  him 
another  searching  look.  He  sought  to  meet  her 
eyes  with  indifference,  but  was  unable  wholly  to 
conceal  his  unhappiness,  which  her  bright  eyes,  her 
genial  smile,  her  very  nearness  intensified. 

Though  she  did  not  understand,  she  knew  he 
was  thinking  of  her  possible  marriage  with  'Bije, 
and  she  construed  his  gravity  into  reproof.  She 
turned  away  from  him  impatiently  and  buried  her 
hands  in  the  basket  as  she  remarked: 

"  Well,  all  the  danger  of  gettin'  drowned  is  over 
now,  Jim,  so  le's  hear  what  danger  you're  runnin' 
from." 

"  Here  it  air,"  said  Jim,  his  finger  upon  a  page. 
"  I'll  read  it."  He  did  so,  in  a  loud,  slow  voice, 
which  came  through  his  nose  with  difficulty  and 


106  STORK'S   NEST 

which  occasionally  lost  a  word  or  syllable  in  the 
nasal  passages:  "'I  was  very  bad  with  heart 
trouble  at  thirty-five  an'  for  eleven  year  had 
smothern'  spells  so  bad  it  was  impossible  for  me 
to  lie  down.  I  also  suffered  from  irreg'lar  pulsa- 
tions an'-  Jim  paused  and  looked  upon  the 
page  fixedly,  then  said  hastily :  "  An'  other  things 
which  it  air  not  usual  to  bandy  about  in  words, 
Emmy,  but  which  I  air  often  subject  to.  But  the 
p'int  is  that  she  was  cured  of  two  bottles  at  fifty 
cent  a  bottle." 

'*  Well,  Jim,"  said  Emma,  with  a  wink  at  Ben- 
ton,  "  I  don't  think  you've  treed  it  yet,  for  if  they 
was  ever  a  time  when  you  could  n't  lay  down,  it 
must  of  been  a  time  of  biles,  for  I  can  think  of  no 
other.  Now  here's  cold  chickun,  salads  till  yous 
can't  rest,  hard-b'iled  aigs,  ham,  pie,  pickles,  salt- 
risin',  crulls,  mustard,  an'  three  hongry  house- 
boaters  to  show  'em  a  thing  or  two." 

"  I'll  jest  go  to  Laclede  Station  fust  chance," 
mused  Jim,  "  an'  purchase  a  bottle." 

"  Come  on,  Jim,  supper's  ready,"  said  Emma. 
"  Now,  Mr.  Cabot,  allow  me  to  serve  you." 
With  great  dignity  and  restraint,  Emma  helped 
his  plate  to  various  good  things.  He  ate  for  a 
while  in  silence,  knowing  she  was  hurt  by  his  unre- 
sponsive manner,  but  finding  it  impossible  to  throw 
off  his  sadness;  the  better  he  knew  Emma,  the 
greater  seemed  the  pity  of  her  sacrifice. 

"  Here's    somethin'    good,"    said   Emma    sud- 


IN    THE   FLOATING   HOUSE      107 

denly,  taking  a  generous  bite  from  a  square  white 
cake.  "  Some  of  Mrs.  Glover's  homemade  candy. 
Um-mmn!  it's  so  good!  Try  it,  Ben."  She  held 
it  up  toward  him:  "  No,  I  was  n't  goin'  to  give  it 
to  you;  jest  take  a  bite." 

Benton  hesitated,  then  bent  his  head  and  hold- 
ing her  hand  to  steady  it,  as  it  held  the  candy,  he 
bit  from  the  cake  where  she  had  left  a  little 
hollow.  Emma's  quick  glance  told  her  as  he 
lifted  his  head  that  there  was  still  but  one 
hollow. 

"Was  it  good?"  she  asked.  Her  eyes  found 
his,  and  sparkled  with  laughter,  while  a  faint  color 
showed  in  her  cheeks.  Benton  returned  the  look 
without  a  word.  Her  color  deepened,  and  sud- 
denly she  looked  away;  it  was  the  first  time  she 
had  averted  her  eyes  from  the  gaze  of  the  young 
man.  "  Here,  Jim,"  she  said  hastily,  "  don't  you 
want  a  bite?  " 

"  Yous  jest  wait,"  said  Jim,  "  till  I  consult  my 
book.  I  think  sweets  are  tabooed  if  I  take  this 
medicine.  "w 

"  Jim,"  said  Emma,  almost  pleadingly,  "  I  want 
yous  to  take  a  bite,  now.  We're  havin'  one  all 
around,  to  show  we're  jest  good  friends." 

"It  says  *  no  sweets,'  Emmy;  I've  found  the 
place.  You  an'  Ben  jest  eat  it  together.  I  believe 
you-all  can  do  it,"  said  Jim  suspiciously,  "  without 
makin'  but  one  hole  to  it!  ",• 

"  I  don't  want  no  more,"  said  Emma,  throwing 


io8  STORK'S   NEST 

the  candy  from  the  window  and  rising  abruptly. 
"  Land !  I  wish  it  was  mornin'  !  Poor  gran'pop !  " 
It  had  stopped  raining.  Presently  it  grew  dark. 
There  was  little  more  conversation  in  the  room. 
Jim  was  immersed  in  reflection  upon  his  state. 
When  he  spoke,  as  at  times  he  did  drowsily,  it  was 
in  regard  to  medicine  and  symptoms.  Emma  and 
Benton  seemed  to  have  lost  much  of  that  sympa- 
thetic comradeship  which  had  made  the  voyage  on 
the  tree  something  like  a  romance  of  a  ballad. 
Perhaps  with  the  daylight  they  would  feel  once 
more  at  ease,  but  now  a  restraint  bound  each. 
The  conflict  within  the  young  man  had  been 
renewed.  Admiration  for  the  girl's  natural  charm, 
sympathy  with  her  impulsive  spirit,  desire  to  be  a 
closer  friend,  a  confidant,  an  adviser  and  a  pre- 
ceptor, sorrow  because  one  so  innocent  and  so 
capable  of  higher  things  should  be  sacrificed  to  a 
man  of  'Bije's  type,  something  akin  to  anger  and 
scorn  that  she  could  calmly  contemplate  marriage 
from  a  mercenary  standpoint — these  emotions 
warred  in  Benton's  breast.  In  spite  of  their  depth 
and  seriousness,  the  exhaustion  of  many  feverish 
hours  began  to  take  possession  of  him.  The  hard 
floor  upon  which  he  lay  stretched  became  con- 
founded with  his  boarding-house  bed  in  Blair 
City.  The  face  of  his  old  guardian  flitted  before 
him,  then  the  friends  of  his  native  town.  He 
heard  familiar  street  cries,  and  the  last  popular 
tune,  which  he  had  forgotten,  began  grinding 


IN    THE   FLOATING  HOUSE     109 

itself  in  his  brain  on  a  sort  of  mental  hand-organ. 
All  became  confused  and  far-away,  and  he  was 
being  lost  in  sleep,  when  a  restless  toss  of  his  arm 
brought  his  hand  in  contact  with  the  little  warm 
hand  of  Emma.  She  was  fast  asleep,  and  her 
hand  did  not  move.  It  was  half-closed,  the 
knuckles  resting  upon  the  bare  floor. 

What  a  hard  support  for  so  tender  a  hand! 
Benton's  heart  thrilled  with  pity.  She  was 
wrapped  in  a  quilt  which,  after  all,  afforded  little 
relief  from  the  discqmfort  of  drenched  garments. 
But  those  dainty  little  knuckles  need  not  be 
wounded  against  the  rough  board  where  per- 
chance splinters  lurked.  He  lifted  the  hand  care- 
fully and  let  it  lie  in  his,  and,  as  if  her  fingers  pos- 
sessed some  magic  power,  every  unkind  thought 
and  every  uneasy  feeling  vanished.  It  was  as  if  a 
fairy  with  her  wand  had  touched  his  fancies  and 
by  that  touch  had  converted  them  to  golden 
dreams.  He  lay,  now,  very  wide  awake,  while 
through  her  fingers  the  warm  currents  of  her  life 
seemed  mingling  with  his  being. 

It  was  about  midnight  when  a  strange  sound 
from  without  roused  him  from  a  deep  reverie 
and  her  name  broke  from  his  lips  before  he  was 
aware.  "  Emma !  listen !  " 

Emma  moved  uneasily,  and  still  half-asleep, 
drew  her  hand  away,  murmuring:  "  Gran'pop!  " 

A  loud  voice  came  from  without :  "  Ahoy, 
thar;  Jim  Whitlicks!" 


no  STORK'S   NEST 

Jim  started  to  a  sitting  posture.  The  room  was 
intensely  dark.  "  What  new  misery  is  this?  "  said 
Jim  gloomily.  Through  the  opposite  window 
came  the  flash  of  a  lantern.  "  Hi !  "  cried  the 
voice.  "  Hi  thar,  Jim !  Ahoy !  Ahoy !  " 

"If  it  ain't  Si  Stork!"  exclaimed  Emma  as 
Benton  helped  her  to  rise.  "  Hey,  Si,"  she  cried, 
stumbling  to  the  window.  "  Mercy  me,  I'm  so 
dead  sleepy!  " 

"  What  on  airth !  "  came  the  voice.  "  Is  that 
Emma  Garrett?  Well,  show  me!  I'm  from 
Mizzoury." 

"  Here  I  air.  The  hull  fambly  is  in  here ;  Jim 
an'  me,  an'  a  young  gentleman  from  down  South." 

"  A  young  which?  A  young  gentleman  named 
Benton  Cabot?" 

"  Him." 

"  All  right.  It  won't  cost  no  more  for  three 
'n  one.  I've  got  a  boat  here,  an'  I  did  n't  have  to 
pay  for  it  an'  don't  expec'  to,  nuther!  Kin  you-all 
drap  out  that  window?  " 


VII 

"EMMY"    TRIES    THE    LONG 
ROAD 

EMMA  GARRETT  was  the  first  to  climb 
down  from  the  window  into  the  skiff;  next 
came  Benton  Cabot,  then  Jim  Whitlicks. 
There  were  no  greetings  of  any  sort  aside  from 
Silas  Stork's  hearty  "Git  in!"  and  the  warning 
of  a  second  occupant :  "  Take  keer !  "  As  soon 
as  they  had  found  seats,  Silas,  with  the  aid  of  the 
other  man,  who,  it  appeared,  was  the  owner  of 
the  boat,  pushed  away  from  the  floating  house. 
Benton,  curious  to  examine  his  new  master,  for- 
got everything  else  in  his  scrutiny;  but  the  lantern, 
set  securely  in  the  bow,  cast  more  light  into  his 
eyes  than  upon  the  brother  of  the  much-admired 
'Bije.  Heavy  clouds  jealously  sought  to  shut  in 
the  light  of  the  sky,  but  the  closer  they  crowded 
together,  the  more  incessant  was  the  lightning, 
which  laughed  at  their  vain  endeavor.  It  threw 
its  glaring  flashes  over  the  wild  river  now  rushing 
madly  along  at  some  distance  behind  them.  It 
revealed  the  wide  expanse  of  rippling,  blackened 
water  which  spread  out  over  the  old  orchard,  and 
it  showed  far  away  upon  the  margin  of  the  shallow 

in 


ii2  STORK'S  NEST 

lake  a  sloping  shore  of  corn  which  swayed  in  the 
wind,  whispering  and  nodding  as  if  rejoicing  over 
its  escape  from  the  flood. 

It  revealed,  too,  the  rough,  burly  form  of  Silas 
Stork.  It  cut  out  of  the  blackness,  in  vivid  lines, 
his  bushy  brown  beard,  his  round  massive  head, 
his  low,  squat  figure.  His  garments  were  plain 
and  of  ill-assorted  colors;  like  Jim's,  they  were 
evidently  homemade.  His  shirt  was  of  a  dark 
drab,  and,  of  course,  he  wore  neither  coat  nor 
vest.  His  face  showed  a  certain  look  of  content- 
ment and  good-humor  which  encouraged  Benton, 
and  yet  it  had  the  effect  of  suggesting  that  this 
look  was  a  mistake,  for  the  smile  was  bestowed 
impartially  upon  Emma,  the  flood,  and  the  very 
clouds.  When  Silas  smiled,  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  were  sucked  in,  making  two  little  hollows 
in  his  whiskers.  It  gave  him  an  odd,  whimsical 
appearance  which  Benton  tried  to  like,  for  he  was 
anxious  to  be  pleased  with  his  father's  old  friend, 
especially  in  view  of  his  new  relations  with  'Bije's 
brother. 

"  Well,  Ben,"  said  Silas,  when  the  oars  were 
skillfully  plying  the  black  waters,  "  it's  a  pleasure 
to  meet  with  yous,  so  much  so  that  I  feel  it  can't 
be  did  too  quick.  Now,  did  we  shake  hands?  I 
disremember,  but  when  we  git  to  shore  we  must 
do  it  to  be  sartin  it's  did.  Man  must  'tend  to 
his  hand-shakin',  whatever  happens.  Well,  Jim, 
I  see  you've  kept  hold  of  'Bije's  gun.  I'm  glad 


"EMMY"    TRIES   LONG   ROAD    113 

for  your  sake,  for  wolloped  you'd  been,  Jim,  if 
you'd  left  that  gun;  yous  know  that,  yourself." 
*  Yap,"  said  Jim  gloomily. 

"  Yous  see,  brother,"  said  Silas,  turning  to  the 
owner  of  the  boat,  "  yous  see — I  don't  know  your 
name,  an'  don't  keer  to,  as  I  don't  expect  to  see 
no  more  of  yous  after  to-night — but  I  say " 

"  I'm  Hicky  Price,"  said  the  other,  a  tall, 
loose-jointed,  angular  man,  with  cheeks  sunburned 
to  a  lobster-red,  a  hay-colored  mustache,  and  a 
manner  of  audible  breathing.  "  I've  bought  out 
the  store  at  Laclede  Station,  an'  I'm  havin'  it  ran 
for  me,  while  I  farm." 

"  Well,  whoever  yous  air,"  said  Silas  with  the 
hollows  coming  in  his  whiskers,  "  I  was  jest  sayin' 
my  brother  'Bije  is  a  man  of  firmness,  which  I 
hain't,  so  could  never  do  by  Jim  as  a  orphan  must 
needs  be  did  by.  I  turn  'im  over  to  'Bije,  an' 
then,  'Bije  turns  him  over,  don't  he,  Jim?" 

"  Yap,"  said  Jim  meekly,  "  he  do." 

"  My  brother  'Bije  always  does  what  he  has 
to  do.  If  it's  to  milk  a  cow,  he  milks  her,  an'  if 
it's  to  wollop  Jim,  here,  he  wollops  him,  an'  no 
bones  about  it.  Except,"  added  Silas  after  a 
moment  of  reflection,  "  except  Jim's  bones,  I 
might  say." 

"  Si,"  said  Emma,  "  git  on  some  other  subject." 

"  All  right,  Emmy,  all  right,"  said  Silas  good- 
naturedly.  "  Neighbor  " — this  to  Hicky  Price — 
"  we've  got  a  leetle  business  to  arrange.  Yous 


ii4  STORK'S   NEST 

see,  when  I  found  our  campin'  house  were  gone,  I 
sot  out  to  find  it.  For  I  knowed  if  I  ever  told 
'Bije  that  Jim  was  lost — I  knowed  Jim  would  n't 
have  enough  staminy  to  come  back  of  hisself — I 
might  as  well  move  to  E-lynoise ;  more  I  can't  say. 
When  daylight  failed  me,  the  lightnin'  was  my 
pardner,  an'  at  last  I  see  your  shanty.  I  left  my 
hoss  thar,  I  drug  yous  from  bed,  an'  here  we 


air." 


;<  Which  I  knowed,"  said  Hicky  dryly. 
4  Yap,  brother,  yap.     An'  what  I  want  to  know 
air,  how  much  '11  it  cost  to  stop  overnight  in  that 
shanty  of  yourn." 

"  Well,"  said  Hicky  Price  very  slowly,  "  as  to 
say  how  much  '11  it  cost,  yous  air  a  man  an' 
brother,  an'  I  feel  that  I  kin  leave  it  to  you  to  name 
what  yous  think  it  worth." 

"  I  don't  think  it  wo'th  nothin',"  said  Silas 
hastily,  "  as  it's  no  expense  to  yous;  an'  I  thank 
yous  hearty;  indeed,  I  do." 

"Hold  on!"  drawled  Hicky.  "  Mebby  my 
roof  hain't  no  expense,  but  this  boat  an'  my  time's 
somethin'." 

"Nuck,  brother,"  expostulated  Silas.  "I'll 
leave  your  boat  as  good  as  I  found  it,  an'  as  for 
your  time  it  hain't  costin'  you  a  cent.  If  I  had 
n't  drug  yous  out  of  bed,  you'd  slept  this  time  off 
with  no  profit  to  yous  or  anybody  else." 

"  My  sleep  is  valuable  to  me,"  retorted  Hicky 
doggedly. 


"EMMY'     TRIES   LONG   ROAD    115 

"  Now,  brother,"  said  Silas  persuasively, 
"  sleep  hain't  got  no  market.  If  it  had,  I'd  stay 
awake  till  next  fourth  of  July  if  I  had  to  hire  some 
un  to  tickle  me  the  hull  time." 

"  Mr.  Stork,"  Benton  interposed,  his  eyes 
flashing,  "  I  have  money  to  pay  for  our  stay 
here." 

"  You're  reasonable,"  said  Hicky,  breathing 
very  hard.  The  boat  reached  the  corn-patch  and 
was  run  deep  into  the  muddy  bank.  "  As  for  this 
feller,"  he  continued,  splashing  out  with  bare  feet, 
"  they's  this  to  be  said:  If  he  thinks  so  little  of 
my  accommodations,  he  kin  jest  worry  along  with- 
out 'em.  So  come  get  your  hoss  an'  light  out !  " 

"  Brother,"  said  Silas,  in  his  most  honeyed  ac- 
cents, "  hain't  yous  got  no  barn  or  shed  of  no  kind 
I  could  stay  under  till  mornin'  ?  " 

"  See  here,"  said  Hicky  Price  impatiently,  "  I 
could  n't  stay  in  the  same  house  with  you  without 
havin'  cramp  colic,  an'  no  doctor  within  three 
mile.  The  young  people  air  welcome.  Yous 
kin  stay  in  the  barn  if  yous  want,  or  you  kin  go 

to "  Hicky  halted  abruptly,  then  added,  his 

voice  still  husky  with  anger,  "  to  the  wust  place 
you  kin  think  of  to  which  ladies  never  goes,  an' 
therefore  to  which  it  air  improper  to  refer,  ladies 
bein'  present." 

"  Neighbor,"  said  Silas  with  great  good  humor, 
14 1  thank  you  hearty.  The  barn  for  me,  your 
shack  for  the  young-uns." 


n6  STORK'S   NEST 

Emma  was  taken  in  charge  by  Mrs.  Price,  a 
kind,  motherly  woman  who  promised  Benton  and 
Jim  that  in  the  morning  they  would  find  their 
clothes  "  nice  and  dry."  They  were  shown  to 
an  unfinished  room  in  the  second  story  where  Jim 
soon  fell  asleep,  lulled  to  rest  by  the  snoring  of 
two  farm-hands,  who  ordinarily  had  the  room  to 
themselves. 

Benton  was  stiff  and  weary  from  his  exhausting 
experiences  of  the  day,  but  for  a  long  time  he  could 
not  sleep.  His  disappointment  in  Silas  Stork  was 
extreme;  his  whole  nature  was  repelled  by  the 
other's  sordid  meekness  and  mean  good  humor. 
It  was  not  this,  however,  which  kept  him  awake, 
since  the  disposition  of  his  employer  did  not  vitally 
concern  him.  But  he  found  the  thought  of  Emma 
Garrett  reigning  among  his  other  thoughts  like 
an  imperious  queen.  No  matter  whither  his  mind 
strayed,  or  how  it  hid  itself  in  memories  or 
reveries,  it  always  came  back  to  the  sunny  hair, 
the  splendid  gray  eyes,  the  impulsive  heart  of  the 
child.  Why,  after  all,  should  he  be  alarmed  at 
the  pleasure  her  recollection  afforded?  She  was, 
indeed,  a  child.  In  these  strange  surroundings, 
with  the  dismal  Jim,  the  miserly  Silas  Stork,  and 
the  mysterious  'Bije  to  oppress  him,  there  could 
be  no  harm  in  taking  delight  in  the  Grand  River 
girl,  and  in  wishing  that  morning  were  here  that 
he  might  see  her  again.  While  she  was  absent, 
his  displeasure  over  her  contemplated  marriage 


"EMMY"    TRIES   LONG   ROAD    117 

>-.v 

faded  into  dim  half  forgetfulness,  and  her  smile 
shone  forth ;  her  fresh,  girlish  tones  sounded  in  his 
ears. 

The  next  morning  he  hurried  downstairs  eager 
to  see  her,  and  to  discover  if  he  had  deceived  him- 
self in  her  innocent  charms.  She  was  already  at 
the  table  in  the  dining-room  as  he  entered,  slowly 
followed  by  Jim.  Hicky  Price  stood  at  the  win- 
dow, watching  the  girl  with  kindly  wrinkles 
spreading  out  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Benton,  seeing  no  one 
but  Emma. 

She  caught  the  light  from  his  luminous  eyes, 
but  her  sudden,  flashing  smile  was  bestowed  ex- 
clusively upon  the  unappreciative  Whitlicks. 

"  Here's  late  birds !  "  she  cried.  "  Hurry  up, 
or  ever'thin'  will  be  gone." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Hicky  in  his  gentle  drawl, 
"  an'  fill  up  for  the  day.  If  you're  working  for 
Si  Stork,  all  I  say  is,  fill  up,  fill  up  while  yous 
have  a  chance !  " 

"  Mr.  Price,"  said  Benton,  "  I  am  grateful  for 
your  hospitality.  May  I  pay  you  now " 

"  See  here,  young  man,"  said  Hicky  kindly,  "  I 
never  'lowed  to  charge  one  cent  for  you-all.  But 
I'd  heerd  of  that  ole  parasite  out  yander,  an'  he 
racked  an'  wrung  me  till  I  was  hard  drove.  Sit 
down.  Why!  bless  your  soul,  if  they's  a  time 
I'm  most  glad  of  bacon  an'  gravy  it's  when  I  can 
divide  it  with  a  neighbor.  That's  the  way  Hicky 


n8  STORK'S   NEST 

Price  talks.  An'  that's  what  Hicky  Price  means  I 
And  it's  Hick  as  says  so !  " 

These  hearty  words  removed  a  cloud  from  Ben- 
ton's  mind  and  all  three  made  a  good  meal. 

"The  ole  woman,"  as  Hicky  styled  his  wife, 
looked  in  occasionally  from  her  work  with  smiles 
of  encouragement,  and  with  glances  at  "  her 
man  "  which  showed  that  Hicky  Price  was  not 
the  only  one  who  took  pride  in  the  bearer  of  that 
name.  When  breakfast  was  ended  they  went  out 
to  Silas  Stork.  Benton  walked  with  care  and 
some  pain,  for  the  ground  was  muddy  and  his 
shoes  were  hard  and  misshapen  from  their  recent 
soaking,  but  Emma  and  Jim  splashed  along  with 
unconcern.  The  sun  shone  with  a  bold  face  as  if 
resolved  to  deny  yesterday's  long,  dark  defeat. 

"  Here  you-all  air!  "  shouted  Silas.  "  This  is 
a  late  start,  folks,  an'  no  bed  of  roses  to  travel; 
my  one  hoss  for  the  four  of  us." 

"  Don't  you  fret,  Si,"  said  Emma.  "  You  an' 
Ben  can  ride.  Jim  can  tuck  up  his  pants  an'  I'll 
pin  up  my  skirts  an'  we'll  jest  slosh  along  till  we're 
tuckered  out,  then  lay  by  at  some  farm-house 
or  other.  Won't  we,  Jim  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  we'll  do,"  said  Jim. 
"  Whatever  it  is,  I'm  ready  for  it." 

"  I'll  tell  you-all  what,"  said  Hicky,  who  had 
slowly  approached  the  group.  "  Me  an'  one  of 
my  hands  will  row  the  young  folks  back  to  the 
ford.  The  river  has  fell  an'  the  current  is  reason- 


"EMMY'     TRIES    LONG    ROAD    119 

able,  jest  makin'  it  so  we'll  have  to  take  our  lunch 
an'  give  the  day  to  it.  I've  got  a  boat  with  three 
sets  of  rowlocks.  Me  V  my  hand  will  tackle  a 
couple,  Jim  an'  Ben  can  take  turns  at  the  other, 
an'  Emmy  can  jest  sit  an'  smile  on  the  regretty, 
an'  be  cap'n." 

Silas  inquired  cautiously,  "  Now  air  yous  ex- 
pectin'  any  money  out  'f  this,  Mr.  Price?  " 

"  I  hain't  got  nothin'  to  say  to  yous,"  said 
Hicky  roughly.  "  Young  folks,  what  do  you-all 
say?" 

"  It  will  be  just  fine,"  cried  Emma. 

"  Then  it's  a  go  1  "  exclaimed  Hicky.  "  Tell 
your  Mr.  Stork  to  spread  his  wings  an'  fly  away." 

"  This  is  noble !  "  cried  Silas,  mounting  his 
horse  in  great  good  humor.  "  Jim,  you  git  out 
an'  come  back  home  at  the  ole  crossin'.  But  Ben, 
you  return  to  Hi's  with  Emmy.  'Bije  said  to  stay 
thar  a  week,  an'  what  'Bije  says  he  means;  he 
hain't  like  me;  he's  explicit.  Many  thanks, 
Hicky,  for  the  barn.  If  yous  ever  come  my  way 
I'll  do  the  same  by  yous.  But  if  anybody,"  he 
added  impersonally,  "  is  expectin'  a  cent  out  of 
me  for  this  conveyin'  up  stream,  they  air  buildin' 
their  house  on  the  sand.  So  long,  folks !  " 
Silas  rode  away. 

Hicky  Price  stared  after  the  splashing  horse 
and  remarked :  "  I've  been  glad  a  many  time  to 
see  comp'ny  depart;  departures  has  been  some  of 
the  brightest  spots  in  my  dark-colored  jeans  of 


120  STORK'S   NEST 

existence.  But  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  see  a  comp- 
'ny  go  with  a  more  freer  uprisin'  of  the  soul  than 
now.  Why  that  thar  Silas  Stork  acts  on  me  like 
medicine  which  a  man  takes  by  mistake,  meanin' 
to  build  hisself  up,  but  instead,  runs  hisself 
down." 

"Which  medicine  is  that,  Mr.  Price?"  de- 
manded Jim  with  sudden  interest. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  yous,  Ben,"  Hicky  pursued, 
wrapped  up  in  his  theme,  "  to  be  hired  to  that  ole 
rhinocerus — a  tougher  figger  of  speech  I  can't 
devise.  But  le's  say  no  more.  )The  only  satis- 
faction you  kin  get  out  'f  some  folks  is  not  to  think 
of  'em  a-tall."j 

Mrs.  Price  prepared  a  generous  basket  to  which 
the  lunch  in  the  floating  house  added  some  dain- 
ties. The  party  of  five  were  soon  speeding  up  the 
stream  which  by  courtesy  went  by  the  name  of 
Grand  River.  It  was  still  larger  than  usual,  but 
had  returned  to  its  banks  and  the  current  was  just 
strong  enough  to  afford  pleasant  exercise  for  three 
rowers. 

Emma  insisted  on  rowing  first,  and  as  she  sat 
with  her  feet  set  sturdily  before  her  and  the 
muscles  swelling  on  her  brown  arm,  Hicky 
watched  with  a  wink  at  his  "  farm-hand,"  while 
the  wrinkles  spread  fan-like  from  his  eyes  and  his 
breathing  became  audible.  Benton  watched  her, 
also,  but  with  admiration  less  openly  expressed. 
Jim  consulted  his  almanac  without  finding  com- 


"EMMY'     TRIES    LONG    ROAD    121 

fort,  while  the  "  hand,"  with  eyes  upon  the  wasted 
corn-field,  discussed  national  politics.  When  it 
was  Jim's  turn,  Emma  beckoned  Benton  to  sit  be- 
side her  in  the  stern.  The  faces  of  the  rowers 
were  toward  them,  but  in  a  manner  they  were 
alone,  for  the  boat  was  long,  the  u  hand  "  was 
loud  in  his  commendation  of  Free  Silver,  and  Jim, 
though  next  to  them,  saw  them  not.  Emma 
addressed  Benton  directly  for  the  first  time  that 
day: 

"  Ben,  air  you  ready  to  begin  work  on  me?  " 
He  flashed  a  look  of  surprise  at  the  fair  face  so 
near  his  own.  "  I  thought,"  he  said  with  a 
searching  look,  "  that  you  had  made  up  your  mind 
to  try  the  short  way  to  become  a  Person."  He 
smiled  as  he  used  the  word  which  meant  so  much 
to  her,  but  seriousness  returned  as  that  word  re- 
called 'Bije.  The  sunlight,  full  upon  her  face, 
showed  none  of  those  little  defects  it  is  so  wont 
to  reveal  in  its  unpitying  glare.  "  Emma,"  he 
said,  pushing  back  the  old  misshapen  straw  hat 
which  Hicky  had  provided  and  smiling  with  new 
tenderness,  "your  face  is  sunproof!  " 

But  as  she  looked  up  at  the  handsome  features 
which  the  broad  rough  hat  brim  seemed  to  crown 
in  a  sort  of  yellow  glory,  she  realized  how  differ- 
ent he  was  from  her  associates  and  how  like  some 
of  the  figures  in  her  dreams;  and  the  grave 
earnestness  did  not  desert  her  eyes,  while  about 
her  lips  a  pensive  gravity  added  dignity  to  her 


122  STORK'S   NEST 

beauty.  The  heart  of  the  woman  was  revealing 
itself  in  the  opening  flower  of  Emma's  youth.  He 
could  not  treat  her  as  a  little  child.  Under  her 
gaze  he  forgot  his  advantage  of  age  and  felt  some- 
thing slipping  away  to  which  he  had  clung  tena- 
ciously. He  looked  down,  and  her  bare  feet  helped 
him  in  the  endeavor;  for  they  reminded  him  how 
different  in  station — in  everything — was  this  girl 
whose  embrace  had  cheered  him  on  the  storm- 
driven  tree.  Then,  as  he  looked  up  again,  it  was 
difficult  to  realize  that  she  had  rested  in  his  arm, 
that  her  hair  had  lain  upon  his  neck,  that  her  palm 
had  smoothed  his  cheek.  Thus  he  passed  from 
one  emotion  to  another,  no  longer  sure  of  himself 
and  never  sure  of  Emma. 

"  The  main  thing  about  me,"  said  Emma, 
ignoring  his  remark,  "  is  to  patch  up  my  talkin'. 
Nachur'ly  that's  the  fust  thing  that  shows.  I 
want  you,  from  now  on,  to  correct  ever'  word  that 
falls  from  my  mouth.  When  my  words  is  fixed 
up  you  kin  begin  on  my  manners.  After  them, 
you  kin  teach  me  what  thoughts  to  git  into  my 
head.  Nothin'  ain't  thar  now  but  weeds  which 
has  got  to  be  plowed  up  an'  sowin'  made.  For  as 
shore  as  you  sit  thar  in  your  shoes  an'  stockin's, 
Ben,  I'm  goin'  to  make  myself  fit  for  my  St. 
Louis  kin !  " 

In  spite  of  the  pleasure  Benton  felt  at  these 
words,  which  seemed  to  intimate  that  the  mar- 
riage with  'Bije  was  still  undetermined,  and  in 


"EMMY'     TRIES    LONG    ROAD    123 

spite  of  her  charms  and  freshness,  he  felt  a  doubt 
which  pained  him  but  which  refused  to  be 
unrecognized. 

"  Emma,"  he  answered,  not  looking  at  her,  "  it 
is  almost  impossible  to  make  a  person  over.  Do 
you  really  care  to  toil  at  it  day  and  night,  when 
you  are  already  so  happy  with  your  grand- 
father? " 

"  Mr.  Cabot,"  said  Emma,  her  eyes  flashing, 
"  IVe  told  you  one  way  I  have  to  lift  myself  up. 
You  air  the  only  other  way  I  know.  Seems  like 
you  were  sent  jest  in  time  to  stop  somethin'.  But 
if  you  don't  want  the  job  of  Emmy  Garrett,  say 
so  now !  " 

"  Emma,  are  you  resolved  to  work  hard?  For 
the  effort  must  be  unceasing." 

"  I  won't  stop  at  nothin',  if  you  feel  like  it. 
I'll  improve  ever'  bone  of  my  body.  I'll  git  out 
of  myself  ever'thin'  God  has  put  in  it.  From  now 
on,  I'll  jest  say  one  remark.  You'll  say  it  as  it 
orter  be.  Then  I'll  say  it  after  you.  Then  you'll 
keep  on  till  you  make  me  say  it  right." 

"  Emma,"  exclaimed  Benton,  thrilled  by  her 
earnestness  and  showing  a  sudden  color  in  his  pale 
cheeks,  "  Have  you  given  up  'Bije?  Say  you 
have,  Emma !  " 

"  No,  I  have  n't,"  said  Emma  abruptly.  "  But 
I  hain't  given'  up  your  plan.  Ain't  that  enough 
to  say?  If  you  feel  I'm  goin'  to  be  a  burden  to 
you " 


124  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Oh,  Emma !  you  a  burden  to  me !  Why ! 
Don't  you  know  that  just  to  be  with  you  this  way 
makes  everything "  Benton  stopped  abruptly. 

"Well,  all  right!"  said  Emma,  smiling;  "I 
think  a  heap  of  you,  too,  Ben.  Now  git  to  work 
on  me!  " 

"  Then  I'll  take  that  last  remark  of  yours," 
said  Benton,  "  for  it's  a  good  one  to  begin  with. 
Now  listen,  attentively;  I  think  a  great  deal  of 
you,  too." 

Emma  repeated  with  a  sober,  business-like  air, 
"  I  think  a  great  deal  of  you,  too." 

"  Do  you,  Emma?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  That  hain't  my  remark,"  said  Emma  gravely; 
"I  don't  know  it!" 

"  Now  this  would  be  better  English."  said  Ben- 
ton;  "I  like  you  very  much.  And  it  would  be 
truth,  too,  Emmy,"  he  said,  pronouncing  the 
familiar  name  with  a  lingering  touch, 

"  Le's  not  wear  out  that  remark,"  said  Emma, 
"  we  might  want  to  use  it  ag'in.  Besides,  if  I  git 
perfect  on  the  fust  thing  I  say,  they  would  n't  be 
no  chance  of  improvement." 

Benton  recovered  himself  with  heightened 
color  and  became  more  guarded.  During  the  long, 
bright  day  Emma  learned  much  practical  gram- 
mar which  she  might  have  sought  in  vain  at 
school.  Every  sentence  she  uttered  was  taken  up 
by  Benton.  She  repeated  his  corrections  with  un- 
failing good  humor  and  enduring  patience.  At 


"EMMY'     TRIES   LONG   ROAD    125 

midday  they  stopped  in  a  little  cove  to  eat  their 
dinner.  The  great  wicker-basket  was  drawn 
forth  and  the  middle-seat  furnished  a  table.  The 
skiff  was  fastened  under  a  forest  tree  which  stood 
looking  at  itself  in  the  mirror  of  the  stream.  It 
threw  a  grateful  shade  to  the  party  as  a  reward 
for  honoring  it  with  their  presence.  All  of  them 
were  hungry  and  the  meal  was  made  almost  in 
silence. 

"This  here  thing  of  talkin',"  said  Emma  to 
Hicky,.  "  is  so  serious  a  thing,  it's  a  pity  babies 
ever  begins  till  they  kin  learn  to  do  it  right.  I 
never  knowed  they  was  any  difference  betwixt  an* 
an'  and,  an'  uv  an'  of.  I  wish  I'd  waited  till  now 
to  tek — to  take  up  language ;  then  I  would  n't  hev 
— have  to  do  it  all  over.  Ben,  air  yous  listenin' 
to  me?  Land!  If  I  hain't  gone  back  to  yous. 
Looks  like  ever'  new  princible  I  git  aboard,  it- 
crowds  out  somethin'  I  thought  I  knowed." 

"  I  am  listening,"  said  Benton,  "  but  I'll  let 
you  rest  till  dinner  is  over." 

'*  Thank  ye  hearty,  Ben ;  you're  a  good  soul. 
All  right,  we'll  forgit  the  hull  business.  Land, 
Jim !  If  you  are  n't  crying !  " 

"  Never  mind  me,"  said  Jim  dolefully,  rubbing 
his  eyes  with  his  shirt-sleeve.  "  Hand  me  some 
of  that  chickun,  please,  Mr.  Price." 

;<  Why,  Jim,  lad,"  said  Hicky,  much  discom- 
posed, "what's  the  matter,  bub?  Yous  ain't 
goin'  to  improve  yourself,  I  hope  !  " 


126  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Mr.  Price,"  said  Jim,  whose  thoughts  were 
far  from  the  present  scene,  "  did  yous  ever  see 
teeth  drawed?  I  jest  got  to  thinkin'  about  the 
time  Mrs.  Si  Stork  had  one  drawed;  that  drawin' 
was  jest  awful,  an'  the  screamin'  an'  shriekin' — I 
never  hear  the  likes !  " 

"  Well,  Jim,"  said  Hicky,  "  it  wa'n't  none  of 
your  teeth." 

"  I  know  it  wa'n't,  sir.  But  time's  comin' 
when  all  on  us  must  have  false  teeth.  I  don't  see 
how  I'm  to  stand  it  a-tall  when  I  come  to  mine 
to  be  drawed.  When  I  git  to  thinkin'  of  it,  I  git 
so  meser'ble,  nothin'  on  airth  can  cheer  me  up. 
Will  yous  hand  me  some  jell  to  go  on  this  biscuit, 
please?" 

"  But  Jim,  it's  shorely  a  long  time  off  for 
yous." 

"  Yas,  sir;  but  I'll  be  ready  an'  waitin'  when 
the  time  comes.  I  don't  let  no  trouble  take  me 
by  sa'prise." 

"  Besides,"  said  Hicky,  with  a  wink  at  Emma, 
"  the  time  may  never  come  a-tall.  Cheer  up, 
bub,  yous  may  die  before  yous  git  old  enough  for 
false  teeth." 

;<  Which?  "  said  Jim,  stopping  the  bread  on  its 
way  to  his  mouth,  in  sudden  surprise;  he  had 
clearly  not  thought  of  this  contingency. 

"  I  say,  take  heart,  bub.  They's  a  many  good 
corpse  in  the  cemet'ry  without  false  teeth  to  their 
mouths." 


"EMMY"    TRIES   LONG   ROAD    127 

Emma  began  to  laugh,  while  Hicky  could  not 
prevent  his  smile-wrinkles  from  spreading  over  his 
sunburned  face.  Jim  looked  down  his  nose  at  the 
bread,  took  a  mournful  bite  and  said  nothing. 

"  Jim  never  smiles,"  said  Emma,  patting  Jim's 
shoulder  with  a  protecting  hand,  "unless  nachurly 
drove  to  it.  But  it's  no  wonder.  With  the  kind 
uv — of  father  he  has,  you  can't  expect  him  to  be 
jubilatin'." 

Hicky,  who  had  been  treated  to  a  detailed  ac- 
count of  the  ghost — the  flow  of  Emma's  narrative 
painfully  hampered  by  the  corrections  of  her  men- 
tor— looked  at  his  "  farm-hand  "  doubtfully  and 
said  no  more.  ^ 

When  luncheon  was  finished   they  wandered  in   - 
the   wood,    in   spite   of   the   wet   earth.     Benton 
sought  the  advantage  of  the  logs,  the  upper  sides 
of  which  had  dried  in  the  sun,  but  Emma  and  Jim 
splashed   in  mossy  pools  that  they  might  show 
Benton  and  the  boatmen  their  aquatic  skill.  With 
the  resumption  of  the  journey,  the  language  les- 
sons were  taken  up  again.     Emma  talked  about 
whatever  she  pleased,  careful  to  speak  but  one 
sentence  at  a  time.     Benton  immediately  pounced     4 
upon  it,  shook  it,  as  it  were,   from  the  dust  of  -g 
ignorance,  and  returned  it  bright  and  proper,  to 
be  stored  away  in  memory. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  they  reached  the  "  ole 
crossin'  "  where  Jim  had  been  directed  to  land. 
He  sadly  bade  them  good-by  and  disappeared 


128  STORK'S   NEST 

among  the  trees,  his  green  almanac  in  his  hand. 
At  last,  far  up  the  river,  the  stone  chain  of  the 
ford  came  in  sight. 

Benton  looked  from  it  to  Emma,  his  eyes  shin- 
ing. Her  gray  orbs  filled  with  tears.  She  took 
his  hand  and  squeezed  it  heartily.  As  they  came 
nearer,  the  girl  suddenly  exclaimed: 

"What's  that  on  the  shore,  Ben?  Look  I 
If  it  ain't  ole  'Thuze  an'  the  spring-wagon !  Silas 
Stork  must  of  rode  over  to  tell  gran'pop  to  meet 
us.  Now  see?  it  is  gran'pop!"  Her  voice 
faltered.  She  stood  up  and  wildly  waved  her 
arm:  "We're  safe,  gran'pop!"  she  shouted  to 
the  small,  frail  figure  standing  at  the  horse's 
head. 

The  old  man  sought  to  respond,  but  his  faint 
voice  died  away  in  sobs  of  joy. 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  out  of  this  boat !  "  cried 
Emma,  desperately.  "  Can't  you  row  faster4 
Hicky?  Here,  Ben,  give  me  the  oars!  " 

Hicky  tried  to  wink  at  his  "  farm-hand,"  but 
the  eye  filled  with  tears.  The  grandfather,  who 
for  hours  had  given  up  Emma  and  Benton  for 
lost,  quivered  with  tremulous  joy  as  he  clung  to 
the  horse's  bit. 

\When  the  skiff  drew  up  at  the  river's  edge, 
Emma  leaped  out  first,  splashed  through  the 
water,  and  took  Hiram  Garrett  in  her  strong 
arms.  Both  of  them  cried  a  little,  but  Benton 
was  not  forgotten,  and  Hicky  Price  was  crowned 


"EMMY'     TRIES    LONG    ROAD    129 

with  the  thanks  of  three  grateful  hearts.)  Pres- 
ently the  boat  dropped  down  the  river,  and  the 
wagon  with  its  three  occupants  turned  homeward. 
Hiram  had  many  questions  to  ask  and  the  time 
passed  rapidly  in  the  relation  of  yesterday's  ad- 
ventures and  to-day's  pleasures. 

'Thuze,  on  finding  himself  near  home,  for  the 
first  time  showed  an  air  of  cheerfulness.  The  sun 
had  set,  and  the  world,  softened  by  recent  rains 
and  warmed  by  the  love  of  a  golden  day,  lay  all 
in  a  quiver  of  delicious  perfumes.  The  warm 
and  deep-blue  August  sky  looked  down  tenderly 
upon  her  happiness. 


VIII 
A    CATALPA    LEAF 

BEFORE  Benton  Cabot  climbed  out  of  the 
spring  wagon  he  stood  up  to  gaze  across 
the  corn-patch  and  orchard  at  Hiram  Gar- 
rett's  log  cabin.  It  looked,  indeed,  like  home  to 
the  wanderer;  even  the  yard,  carpeted  with  thou- 
sands of  plantain  leaves,  had  a  look  which  brought 
peace,  reminding  him,  though  so  different,  of  his 
Blair  City  boarding  house.  He  stood  thus  but  a 
moment,  then  descended  to  help  Hiram  unhitch. 
Emma  had  been  watching  him  and  she  had  seen 
the  glow  of  home  pleasure  on  his  handsome,  open 
face. 

4  Yap,  it  is  good  to  get  back,"  she  said,  smiling 
at  him.  "  I  feel  like  an  old  hen  that  has  been 
kept  shut  up  some'ers."  Her  simile  was  doubt- 
less suggested  by  the  chickens  at  the  edge  of  the 
orchard.  They  were  huddled  about  the  hen- 
house door,  not  yet  accustomed  to  camping  out 
and  indignant  over  not  being  fed.  "  I'm  corn- 
in',"  called  Emma,  climbing  the  lot-fence  with 
peculiar  agility.  '  You  chickens  air  just  like 
human  folks;  you'd  ruther  go  in  your  home  an' 
die  of  chiggers  than  change  your  base !  " 

130 


A    CAT  ALP  A   LEAF  131 

The  pigs  which  had  followed  her  to  the  fence 
watched  her  departing  feet  with  heartrending 
squeals  of  anguish.  Hiram  and  Benton  placed 
the  horse's  supper  before  him  and  'Thuze  watched 
them  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  till  they  had  left 
the  barn  before  he  would  take  a  bite.  They  carried 
a  basket  of  corn  to  the  pig  pen. 

"  Yous  kin  do  the  shuckin',"  said  Hiram,  "  an' 
I'll  slop  'em.'7  The  old  man  trudged  to  the  cabin 
with  a  bucket  and  vanished  through  the  kitchen 
door.  He  was  gone  a  good  while.  Emma 
finished  feeding  the  chickens  and  joined  him. 
When  Benton  saw  him  reappear,  Emma  was  by 
his  side  in  the  doorway,  her  arms  about  him.  By 
that  time  the  corn  was  shucked  and  Benton, 
perched  upon  the  top  plank  of  the  pen,  watched 
the  picture  with  a  smile.  The  grandfather  held 
his  bucket,  now  full,  and  his  exertions  were 
divided  between  preserving  its  contents  and  receiv- 
ing Emma's  kiss.  The  bucket  was  so  heavy  that 
it  bent  him  away  from  the  girl.  She  stood  upon 
tiptoe,  laughing.  The  sun  turned  the  little  man's 
hair  to  silver.  Emma,  finding  Benton  watching, 
shook  out  a  golden  lock  and,  holding  it  about  her 
grandfather's  head,  mingling  its  glory  of  beauty 
with  his  glory  of  age,  shouted :  "  Hooray !  Six- 
teen to  one !  "  When  at  last  the  pigs  were 
"slopped"  the  men  went  to  the  house;  a  hot 
breath  fanned  their  faces  as  they  passed  the 
kitchen.  Emma,  flushed  and  bare-armed,  cried: 


132  STORK'S   NEST 

"  I'm  gettin'  a  rousin'  supper,  folks.  Better  be 
coolin'off!" 

They  walked  around  to  the  front  room.  Hiram 
shouldered  a  chair  and  carried  it  outside.  Ben- 
ton,  observing  his  trunk,  went  to  rummage  in  its 
depths,  looking  at  old  keepsakes  and  drawing 
forth  his  work-clothes. 

"  Pull  on  that  book  a  spell,"  said  Hiram,  who 
sat  with  his  chair  tilted  against  the  cabin  wall,  his 
legs  drawn  up  with  his  feet  tucked  upon  the  rounds 
to  avoid  the  damp  grass,  and  his  pipe  at  full  blast. 
Understanding  this  an  invitation  to  read  aloud, 
the  young  man  began  in  a  doubtful  tone  which 
soon  grew  steady  and  assured.  The  book  was  the 
Bible. 

Hiram  listened  in  profound  silence,  his  eyes 
upon  the  distant  wood.  His  pipe  went  out,  but 
he  did  not  remove  it  from  his  thin,  dry  lips.  Per- 
haps his  thoughts  were  wandering  to  the  long  dis- 
tant past ;  perhaps  the  words  were  sinking  into  his 
heart;  Benton  could  not  tell.  When  supper  was 
announced  Hiram  rose  with  a  sigh. 

'  Thanky,"  he  said  simply. 

"  Now,  gran'pop,"  said  Emma,  when  they  were 
seated  at  the  table  close  to  a  furious  fire,  "  you 
must  n't  think  strange  of  our  goin's  on ;  Ben  is  im- 
provin'  my  grammar."  She  paused  and  looked 
at  the  young  man  for  correction,  but  he  had  none 
to  make. 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  man,   surprised  at  her 


A    CAT  ALP  A   LEAF  133 

inactivity,  "  hain't  you's  goin'  to  eat,  along  with 
it?" 

"  Yap,"  said  Emma,  smiling  across  the  table  at 
him :  "  Give  me  some  of  that  there  bonny  clab- 
ber cheese." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  spoke  up  Benton  promptly;  "  please 
help  me  to  some  of  that  bonny  clabber  cheese." 

Hiram,  who  had  reached  for  Emma's  plate, 
changed  the  direction  of  his  hand  and  took  up 
Benton's.  But,  before  he  could  put  the  spoon  into 
the  dish,  Emma,  intent  upon  her  pursuit  of  knowl- 
edge and  not  regarding  the  effect  of  her  words 
upon  Hiram,  said:  "  Yes,  sir,  please  help  me  to 
some  of  that  there  bonny  clabber  cheese." 

Hiram  poised  the  spoon  in  amazement  at  this 
breach  of  hospitality.  "  No,  no,"  cried  Benton, 
"  not  *  that  there  ' !  Yes,  sir,  please  help  me  to 
some  of  that  bonny  clabber  cheese." 

"  Gim  me  time,  son !  "  said  Hiram  briefly. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Emma,  "  please  help  me  to 
some  of  that  bonny  clabber  cheese." 

Hiram  laid  down  the  helping-spoon  in  dismay. 
"  Emmy,  I  never  knowed  yous  to  act  so  onperlite, 
an*  in  your  own  house,  too!  Don't  yous  see  it  air 
ever' thin'  to  Ben  to  git  helped  fust?  An'  why 
not  let  him?  The  evenin'  is  before  us,  honey." 

"  Why,  gran'pop !  "  expostulated  Emma,  "  did 
n't  I  tell  you  we  are  improvin'  my  grammar?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  old  man,  greatly  relieved. 
'  Yap,  yap.  Well,  would  yous  mind  to  put  it  off 


134  STORK'S    NEST 

till  after  meal  time?  It's  pow'ful  confusin'  to 
me,  an'  it  don't  seem  to  accomplish  nothin'  prac- 
tical." 

"  We'll  put  it  off,"  said  Emma,  "  but  it  will 
accomplish  so  much  that  it  will  make  a  Person 
out  of  me.  Would  you  like  to  improve  yourself, 
gran'pop?  " 

"Nuck,"  said  Hiram  hastily.  "  Thanky,  I 
druther  not,  if  yous  don't  mind,  honey.  I  got  all 
the  grammar  I  need  now  for  to  ketch  my  beastes, 
but  yous  kin  improve  yourself  till  you  can't  sit 
down.  An  ole  man,  honey,  air  sot  in  his  bones, 
an'  no  course  of  grammar  hain't  goin'  to  put  mar- 
row in  'em.  It  was  n't  intended,  Emmy,"  he 
added  after  a  pause;  "  air  yous  goin'  to  be  a  hap- 
pier gal  when  you  be  fine  an'  high?  'Cause  I 
hain't  no  doubt  you'll  git  to  so  be  if  so  be  yous 
air  sot  on  so  bein'." 

"  Happier!  "  said  Emma  contemptuously. 
"  Bless  your  heart,  gran'pop,  no !  How  could  I 
be  happier  than  I've  been  all  my  life  along  of 
yous,  you  dear  ole  darlin'  of  a  gran'poppy !  " 
Emma  dropped  her  knife,  with  which  her  eating 
was  almost  exclusively  carried  forward,  and 
started  up  from  the  table. 

"  Go  'way,  honey,"  interposed  Hiram  hastily, 
in  his  faint  shallow  voice;  "victuals  an' kisses 
don't  go  together." 

"  Of  course,  I  won't  be  happier,"  Emma  said, 
reseating  herself  and  beaming  upon  the  old  man 


A    CAT  ALP  A   LEAF  135 

in  lieu  of  the  unwelcome  kiss.  "  Bein'  happy  ain't 
no  pursuit  for  grand  folks;  it  belongs  to  tramps 
an'  rascals.  Th'  ain't  nothin'  to  it  but  relapses. 
I  calkerlate  nobody  ain't  happier  than  a  feller  that 
thinks  he's  goin'  to  be  hung  an'  of  a  sudden  is 
pardoned.  All  I  ask  is  to  be  put  on  a  plane  with 
my  St.  Louis  kin  that  won't  claim  me  now;  if  I 
don't  show  'em  a  thing  or  two  some  day  my  name 
is  other  than  Emmy  Garrett." 

"  I  hope,"  said  Hiram  slowly,  "  that  if  yous 
ever  meet  'em,  you  kin  show  the  -pure  an'  innocent 
heart  you've  showed  me.  Ben  was  readin'  be- 
fore supper  out  of  a  book  I'd  like  for  yous  to 
know  somethin'  about,  honey.  The  Bible's  a 
good  thing.  I  hain't  never  made  no  speciality  of 
it,  but  I  allers  claimed  it  as  a  tol'able  like  good 
thing.  Ben,  can't  yous  hump  her  up  along  that 
line?" 

"  Now,  I  can't  carry  too  many  lines  at  once," 
interposed  Emma.  "  I'm  pow'ful  burdened  as  it 
is.  Ben,  which  is  more  important  in  gettin'  up 
high,  Bible  or  grammar?  " 

"  If  I  gathered  the  meanin'  of  what  Ben  were 
readin'  to  me  before  supper,"  remarked  the  old 
man,  "  so  fur  from  the  Bible  bein'  a  steppin'- 
stone  to  society,  honey,  it's  ag'in  the  hull  business." 

"  Then  that  settles  the  Bible!  "  said  Emma. 

"  Do  not  say  that !  "  cried  Benton.  "  Mr. 
Garrett,  you  don't  understand  what  kind  of  society 
Emma  means." 


136  STORK'S   NEST 

"  I  mean  the  tiptop,"  cried  Emma    firmly. 

*  You  mean  the  best,"  rejoined  the  young  man, 
"  and  not  the  sort  which  simply  calls  itself 
best." 

"  Now  they  ain't  no  use  to  be  barkin'  up  a 
wrong  tree!  "  said  the  girl  fixedly,  "  for  you  can't 
bring  down  the  'possum  that  ain't  there.  I  want 
to  be  raised  to  a  plane  of  my  St.  Louis  kinfolks, 
where  we  kin  wrestle  on  a  level  to  see  which  comes 
out  fust.  It  won't  do  me  no  good  to  feel  myself 
as  good  as  others;  I've  allers  done  that.  Others 
have  got  to  feel  it,  too;  it  has  got  to  be  rubbed  in 
on  'em  till  it  makes  their  eyes  smart.  I  know  I'm 
learnin'  fast.  Sometimes  I  get  my  *  g's '  at  the 
end  of  my  words,  an'  I  have  learned  '  are  n't,' 
though  I  don't  know  whar  it  comes  in;  don't  seem 
no  use  for  it,  Ben.  But  hain't  I  comin'  out  'f  the 
kinks?" 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  said  Benton  to  Hiram, 
"  how  quick  and  bright  she  is!  " 

"  I've  put  my  heart  in  it,"  said  Emma,  "  an' 
when  I  get  my  language  ship  shape,  I  guess  I'll 
take  to  shoes  an'  stockings;  but  I'll  save  my  feet 
for  the  last.  Gran'pop,  you  know  I  have  a  way 
of  rising  in  the  world.  Yous  know  what  I  mean, 
an'  I've  told  Benton  about  it.  That  way  is  sure 
and  quick.  Well,  whichever  way  I  take,  I  'low 
to  meet  them  St.  Louis  relations  when  I'm  older, 
an'  then  we'll  see  whose  fur  '11  fly !  " 

Benton  felt  a  deep  depression  at  these  words. 


A    CATALPA   LEAF  137 

They  showed  that  the  thought  of  'Bije,  however 
he  might  forget  it,  was  ever  in  the  background  of 
Emma's  mind.  After  supper  Hiram,  afraid  of 
"  fallin'  doo,"  drew  his  rocker  to  the  cabin  door 
while  Benton  sat  outside  upon  the  doorstep. 
Emma  was  clearing  away  the  dishes  and  they 
could  hear  her  singing  at  her  work. 

"  Mr.  Garrett,"  said  Benton  suddenly,  "  I  know 
what  Emma  meant  when  she  referred  to  a  quick 
way;  I'd  like  to  speak  to  you  about  that;  would 
you  mind?  " 

"  They  hain't  no  bars  across  the  road,"  said 
Hiram,  smoking  steadily.  "  Drive  ahead,  son." 
But  his  tones  were  not  encouraging. 

"  Mr.  Garrett,  forgive  me  for  speaking  of 
something  you  may  think  no  affair  of  mine,  but 
just  hearing  her  fresh,  innocent  voice  singing  so 
happily,  saddens  me,  and  I  feel  I  must  speak  out. 
Can  you  consent  to  her  marriage  with  Mr.  'Bije 
Stork?  She  is  so — she  is  so  inexperienced,  and 
— good — and  not  yet  seventeen;  and  he  is  forty- 
seven.  You  know  I  have  never  seen  Mr.  Stork 
so  I  can  have  no  prejudice  against  him,  although 
he  must  be  queer  to  live  in  a  Snake  Room " 

"A  what?"  demanded  Hiram,  taking  his 
pipe  suddenly  from  his  mouth  in  great  astonish- 
ment. 

"  That's  what  Emma  calls  it,"  said  Benton. 
"  I  mean  a  room  nobody  is  allowed  to  enter, — a 
room  without  windows.  But  that's  not  the 


138  STORK'S   NEST 

point.  Think  how  young  and — and — well,  you 
know  what  she  is.  And  then  think  of  her  marry- 
ing, she,  a  mere  child " 

"  I  understan'  you,  Ben,  an'  I  hain't  takin'  no 
offense,  though  I  may  remark  that  these  cattle 
hain't  got  your  brand  on  'em !  " 

"  I  know  I  have  no  right,"  said  Benton  hastily, 
"  but  I  can't  help  speaking  just  this  once !  " 

"  Ben,  listen  at  me,  my  son.  You  know  I 
hain't  good  for  this  world  much  longer;  I'm  up 
in  my  seventies,  an',  while  I  orter  be  proud  to  of 
dumb  so  high,  a  man  jest  nachurly  thinks  less  of 
his  age  the  more  he  gits  of  it.  A  few  more  years 
will  land  me  out,  an*  then  what  '11  become  of 
Emmy?  What  kin  she  do,  alone  here  in  this 
cabin,  with  ole  'Thuze  gittin'  peskier  ever'  day  an' 
nobody  to  set  the  traps  ?  What  kin  become  of  my 
Emmy?  They  hain't  no  kinfolks  on  her  pa's 
side,  an'  you've  heerd  how  her  ma's  relations  has 
cut  up  jack.  But  they's  only  one  thing  a  gal  kin 
allers  do,  if  so  be  that  a  man  stands  ready  to 
assist;  she  kin  marry.  'Bije  Stork  is  forty-seven 
years  old,  an'  he  looks  it,  I  will  say  that  for 
him.  But  he's  stiddy;  he's  honest;  he's  in  earnest 
about  Emmy;  an'  he  owns  the  farm  that  Silas  lives 
on.  He's  a  good  feller.  I  hain't  urgin'  Emmy 
to  have  him ;  as  to  that,  I  hain't  even  advised  her 
in  the  business.  She  kin  do  exactly  as  she  has  a 
min'.  But  between  you  an  'me,  I  can't,  to  save 
my  soul,  see  what  else  kin  help  my  Emmy?  " 


A    CAT  ALP  A   LEAF  139 

At  these  words  a  great  sadness  came  upon  the 
young  man.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  he  vaguely 
realized  something  of  the  pathos  and  tragedy  of 
human  life.  In  the  midst  of  his  own  poverty  and 
sorrows  he  had  maintained  a  cheerful  heart,  tell- 
ing himself  that  one  can  shape  one's  life  almost  as 
desire  and  resolution  direct.  But  now  he  was  con- 
fronted by  those  conditions  of  society  which  fit 
like  iron  chains  about  the  lives  of  the  poor  and 
helpless.  He  recognized  the  truth  of  the  old 
man's  words  and  the  wisdom  of  this  marriage. 
What  else,  indeed,  was  there  for  Emma  ?  Yet  his 
soul  rebelled  against  what  appeared  so  evident  a 
necessity.  Presently  he  rose  from  the  step,  and 
wandered  out  in  the  twilight  with  an  aching  heart. 
Such  a  child !  Not  only  so  young,  but  so  innocent, 
so  pure,  so  beautiful !  What  ambition  in  her  warm 
heart,  what  intense  craving  after  better  things ! 
What  might  she  not  have  become  under  proper 
guidance !  But  there  was  no  use  to  think  of  that. 
He  saw  the  future  as  if  it  were  past ;  he  saw  Emma 
married;  he  saw  her  established  on  the  farm, 
going  about  a  life  of  endless  toil.  She  thought, 
in  marrying  the  master  of  the  estate,  that  she 
would  obtain  position,  riches,  culture;  but  in 
reality  she  might  obtain  only  a  hard  life  of  labor 
and  companionship  with  a  mysterious  man,  thirty 
years  her  senior. 

There  recurred  to  his  mind  Emma's  suggestion, 
that  perhaps  his  coming  to  the  cabin  was  the  means 


i4o  STORK'S   NEST 

of  saving  her  and  that  Providence,  perhaps,  had 
brought  it  about.  Perhaps  it  was  not  too  late  to 
prove  himself  the  good  missionary.  But  she  must 
soon  tire  of  his  instruction,  and,  even  if  she  did 
not,  his  farm  labors  would  interfere  with  it.  She 
was  too  impulsive  to  be  content  to  wait.  During 
the  following  days  he  found  himself  drifting 
toward  the  obscure  future  with  undiminished 
delight  in  the  little  happy  experiences  of  the 
present.  Something  might  happen  to  turn  the 
course  of  Emma's  mind  from  'Bije;  Benton  might 
effect  the  diversion  when  he  had  learned  'Bije 
better.  If  he  could  but  linger  at  the  log  cabin 
through  the  summer  and  fall ! 

"  A  day  on  your  place,"  he  said  once  to  Hiram, 
"  seems  shorter  than  days  anywhere  else." 

"  It  seems  that  way  to  me,  too,"  spoke  up 
Emma ;  "  since  you  have  been  here.  Oh !  don't 
you  wish  we  could  stop  the  clock  of  time?  " 

"  Or  turn  it  back,"  remarked  Hiram  wistfully. 

Benton  worked  hard  during  those  days,  proud 
of  the  strength  which  was  beginning  to  show  itself. 
He  cut  down  several  of  the  trees  in  the  orchard, 
which  Emma,  according  to  Hiram,  "  hed  been 
layin*  off  to  hew  down  for  a  long  spell  "  !  He  was 
proud  of  the  weariness  he  felt  when  the  day  was 
ended,  telling  of  a  man's  toil;  but  the  work 
was  always  pleasant  because  Emma  was  either  by 
his  side  or  visible  in  the  distance.  Even  when  he 
tramped  through  the  wood  with  Hiram  to  examine 


A   CATALPA   LEAF  141 

the  traps,  Emma  accompanied  them,  her  flow  of 
speech  and  laughter  never  running  low. 

It  was  Saturday  when  they  drove  to  Laclede 
Station  to  do  their  trading.  The  spring  wagon 
carried  an  enormous  basket  of  eggs,  the  common 
currency  of  the  neighborhood.  This  was  a  great 
event  and  they  made  a  day  in  the  store  and  its 
vicinity.  Benton  was  introduced  to  the  Tucker- 
mores,  the  Glovers,  the  Stones  and  other  neigh- 
bors who  rode  up  to  the  hitching  posts  with  their 
baskets  of  eggs.  Scarcely  anyone  brought  money. 
The  men  came  in  great  clay-stained  boots ;  most  of 
the  women  were  bare-footed. 

"  Look  at  'em  good,"  said  Emma  to  Benton, 
"  an'  you'll  stop  thinkin'  I'm  a  natural  Grand 
River  curiosity.  Don't  you  see  I'm  in  fashion 
here?  When  the  women  folks  come  to  town,  as 
now  of  a  Saturday,  we  put  on  our  nice  clean 
dresses,  and  our  nice  clean  bare  feet,  and  we  don't 
ask  the  king  to  be  our  counselor!  " 

The  eggs  were  finally  exchanged  for  provisions 
and  dry  goods  and  'Thuze  turned  his  head  home- 
ward. They  felt  a  spirit  of  sadness  settle  upon 
them  as  the  log  cabin  came  in  view,  for  the  next 
day  Benton  was  to  leave ;  Abe  Glover  had  informed 
them  at  the  store  that  'Bije  would  come  for  Ben- 
ton  "  bright  an'  airly." 

"Dear  old  cabin!"  murmured  Benton  below 
his  breath.  No  one  heard  him,  but  Emma  divined 
his  thought,  for  when  supper  was  cleared  away 


142  STORK'S    NEST 

and  they  sat,  as  was  their  wont,  in  the  front  yard, 
the  girl  said: 

"  Ben,  you  ought  to  take  a  leaf  from  our  ca- 
talpa  tree  with  you  as  a  keepsake.  There  are  n't 
any  on  the  Storks'  place  an'  it's  mighty  seldom 
you'll  get  to  come  here,  I  can  tell  you,  bein'  kept 
to  your  work  so  constant." 

"  I  will  get  a  leaf,  of  course,"  said  Benton. 

Emma  rose.  "  Come  and  get  it  now  while  you 
are  thinkin'  about  it,"  she  said. 

He  followed  her  through  the  starlit  night  to  the 
distant  tree.  Benton  said :  "  But  won't  you  pull 
one  for  me,  Emmy?  I'll  think  so  much  more  of 
it,  then." 

"  Ben,  I  hate  to  see  you  go  away,"  said  Emma 
suddenly.  "  I  feel  like  I'm  goin'  to  lose  you  for- 
ever. I'll  tell  you;  I'll  come  over  there  oftener 
than  I  ever  did  before;  maybe  'Bije  will  let  me  get 
a  peek  at  you  once  in  a  while." 

"  Emma,"  said  Benton,  watching  her  face, 
which  had  a  pale,  sylph-like  effect  against  the  dark 
sky,  "  you  seem  to  think  'Bije  a  man  to  be  dreaded 
and  conciliated.  How,  then,  can  you  imagine  you 
will  be  happy  with  him?  " 

"Happy!"  echoed  Emma  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Well,  at  least  you  must  think  your  marriage 
will  prove  a  good  thing  for  you;  and  yet  you  are 
afraid  of  that  man !  " 

"  He  minds  me  pretty  well,"  said  Emma. 
"  Besides,  have  n't  I  told  you  a  thousand  times — • 


A    CAT  ALP  A   LEAF  143 

Oh,  I  don't  want  to  think  about  that  to-night, 
with  you  goin'  away." 

"  But  think  of — Emma,  think  of  that  man !  " 

"  What  else  is  there?  "  exclaimed  Emma,  as  if 
in  desperation.  "  Ben,  when  you  have  gone  home 
— at  the  end  of  three  months — just  three  months 
and  then  back  to  your  Blair  City — Oh !  what  dif- 
ference does  it  make  about  me?  I'll  be  nothing 
to  you,  then;  you'll  even  forget  how  I  look  and 
talk  and  laugh.  And  there  would  n't  be  any  use 
of  your  remembering,  Ben,  because  our  lives  are 
so  different.  We'll  go  back  to  gran'pop,  if  you 
please,"  she  added  sedately. 

"  I'll  never  forget  you,  Emmy,"  said  Benton. 
"  But  you  have  n't  pulled  me  a  leaf,  yet." 

"  So  I  have  n't."  Emma  stood  upon  tiptoe. 
"  I  can't  reach  the  lowest  branch  since  you've 
trimmed  the  tree !  "  she  complained.  "  Ben,  just 
pull  your  own  leaf  an'  then  do  your  own 
remembering." 

"  No,"  said  Benton  decidedly,  "  you  shall 
remember  with  me.  You  can  almost  reach  that 
bough.  I'll  lift  you  up." 

1  You  could  n't  ever  do  that !  "  exclaimed 
Emma. 

"  I  could !  "  returned  Benton.  "  But  here's  a 
better  way."  He  knelt  beside  her,  and  held  his 
hand,  the  palm  turned  upward,  at  his  breast. 
"Here's  a  stirrup;  put  your  foot  in  it  and  make 
a  high  reach." 


144  STORK'S   NEST 

"  My  foot  in  your  hand!  "  exclaimed  Emma, 
looking  down  upon  him,  "  and  no  shoe  on!  " 

"  So  much  the  better!  "  said  Benton. 

Emma  rested  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  to 
steady  herself  and,  drawing  back  her  skirt  with 
the  other  hand,  lifted  her  foot.  But  she  paused, 
laughing  down  at  him  with  rosy  cheeks.  "  I  can't 
do  that,  Ben,"  she  protested.  "  I  wanted  to  do 
you  honor  instead  of  -  " 

She  paused.  Benton,  watching  the  picture  of 
grace  and  beauty,  of  blushing  innocence  and  laugh- 
ing purity,  felt  his  heart  leap  wildly  toward  her. 
The  pressure  of  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  was  an 
appeal  to  his  chivalry  and  it  was  with  knightly 
gentleness  and  gravity  that  he  said: 

ti  -r  f  111  n        f^t     3V 

If  you  would  honor  me,  trust  me. 

Emma's  laughing  indecision  passed.  Lifting 
the  little  brown  foot  higher,  she  slipped  it  into  his 
steady  hand  and  leaped  lightly  toward  the  tree. 
Her  disengaged  hand  tore  a  few  leaves  from  the 
bough.  He  rose  and  took  them. 

"  Every  one,"  he  said,  as  she  turned  away. 

"  I  think  I'll  just  keep  one  myself,"  said  Emma, 
her  voice  trembling  a  little. 

"  Honey,"  called  Hiram,  "  hain't  yous  skeered 
of  the  doo?  It's  a-fallin'  mighty  brisk!  " 

"  I  know  what  yous  want,  you  ole  darlin' 
gran'poppy!"  cried  Emma,  running  toward  him. 
'  You  want  half  a  dozen  kisses  this  minute,  I  know 
you  do!  " 


% 


A   CAT  ALP  A   LEAF  145 

But  Benton  lingered  under  the  catalpa  tree. 

The  next  morning  they  had  scarcely  seated 
themselves  at  the  breakfast-table  when  the  sound 
of  wheels  was  heard,  followed  by  a  loud  shout: 
"  Whoop-ee!  " 

"  That's  'Bije,"  said  Hiram,  who  had  just 
helped  the  young  man  to  bacon.  "  Ben,  you'd 
better  run  V  git  out  your  trunk.  It  never  does  to 
keep  'Bije  a  minute.  Run  on,  son,  Emmy  '11  roll 
up  some  breakfast  yous  kin  kerry  along  with  yous. 
An'  listen  to  my  last  advice,  son;  whatever  yous 
do,  try  to  please  'Bije  Stork!  " 


IX 

STORK'S     NEST 

AIJAH  STORK  was  a  man  of  large  pro- 
portions. In  an  ordinary  crowd  he  would 
easily  have  towered  head  and  shoulders 
above  his  fellows.  It  was  not  alone  in  form  that 
he  proved  a  contrast  to  his  short,  thick-set  brother. 
His  clothes,  that  is  to  say,  his  trousers,  were  of  a 
sober  black  and  had  an  air  of  freshness  and  care. 
His  dark  blue  shirt,  crossed  by  suspenders  of  an 
inoffensive  gray,  suited  him  well.  All  his  features 
were  large.  The  nose  was  bold  and  straight,  the 
lips  were  thick,  the  chin  was  prominent,  with  a 
dimple  which  deepened  at  a  smile;  and  the  eyes, 
of  a  light  gray,  were  set  back  rather  far,  and  some- 
what wider  apart  than  usual.  The  head  was  long 
with  unusual  width  above  the  beetling  brows, 
which  decreased  as  the  upper  temples  sloped  back 
to  the  reddish  brown  hair.  His  style  was  not  that 
which  Benton  Cabot  admired;  it  suggested  neither 
refinement  nor  sympathetic  kindliness.  Yet  the 
young  man  was  obliged  to  confess  that  the  massive 
face  possessed  a  handsomeness  which  might  almost 
be  termed  magnificent.  There  was,  moreover,  a 

146 


STORK'S   NEST  147 

look  of  authority  upon  the  clean  shaven  face,  as  of 
one  used  to  commanding  and  being  obeyed,  which 
Benton  could  well  understand  might  appeal  forci- 
bly to  a  strong,  yet  womanly  girl  like  Emma. 

"  So  this  is  Benton  Cabot,"  said  'Bije,  leaping 
from  the  wagon  and  grasping  the  young  man's 
hand  in  a  powerful  grip.  "  I  greet  you,  young 
man.  Where  is  your  trunk?  " 

Benton  was  quick  to  notice  that  the  words  were 
pronounced  with  more  correctness  than  any  he  had 
heard  before  in  the  neighborhood.  The  voice 
was  powerful  and  deep,  but  not  unmusical. 

"We  did  n't  get  to  finish  breakfast,  'Bije," 
Emma  observed. 

"  Pray,  do  not  let  me  interrupt  it,"  said  the  bass 
voice,  while  the  long  massive  arm  was  waved 
politely.  "  Pray,  Benton,  go  and  replete  yourself." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Hiram,  winking  at  Benton, 
"  Ben -is  too  good  a  lad  to  keep  yous  a  minute, 
waitin'.  Come  help  with  the  trunk,  that  is  to  say, 
'Bije,  if  yous  will  be  so  good  as  to  len'  a  ban'." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure,  with  the  greatest 
pleasure!  "  exclaimed  'Bije  heartily.  His  manner 
did  not  dissipate  the  feeling  of  sadness  which  smote 
Benton  as  he  helped  carry  his  trunk  from  the 
cabin. 

The  wagon  which  'Bije  had  brought  for  the 
trunk  was  a  wretched  vehicle,  so  crazy  that  it 
rocked  from  side  to  side  and  groaned  and  creaked 
as  the  trunk  was  shoved  along  its  bottom.  It  had 


148  STORK'S   NEST 

no  sides  and  part  of  the  flooring  was  missing.  A 
dilapidated  box,  nailed  to  the  forward  end,  served 
as  a  seat. 

'Bije  climbed  upon  the  mean  vehicle  and  dragged 
the  trunk  to  the  middle,  where  he  secured  it  with 
a  frayed  rope. 

"  Well,  'Bije,"  remarked  Emma,  coming  to  Ben- 
ton's  side  as  he  stood  disconsolately  at  the  end  of 
the  wagon,  "  you  have  sure  brought  the  wagon 
Mrs.  Noah  did  her  movin'  with !  "  As  she  spoke 
she  slipped  a  luncheon  into  Benton's  pocket  and 
gave  his  hand  a  sudden  tight  pressure,  whispering : 
"This  is  good-by!  "  She  stepped  back  instantly, 
and  'Bije,  who  was  bending  over  the  rope,  did  not 
see  the  gesture. 

He  straightened  himself  and  said:  "Ben,  you 
kin  take  the  front  seat.  I'll  stand  up  to  drive." 
Then  he  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  wagon  and 
looked  down  upon  Emma's  upturned  face. 
"  Emmy,  I've  got  something  up  at  my  house  I 
want  you  to  see,"  he  said,  the  dimple  deepening 
in  his  long,  bold  chin.  "  It's  something  expressly 
for  them  pretty  hands  of  yours.  Whenever  you 
come  our  way " 

!<  I  expect  I'll  come  pretty  often,  now  Ben's 
going  to  be  there,"  Emma  interposed. 

"Ah!"  said  'Bije  in  his  deepest  tone.  "To 
be  sure — to  be  sure!  Yap.  Well,  Emmy,  I've 
bought  a  brand  new  piano." 

"  A  piano !  "  exclaimed  Emma,  her  eyes  danc- 


STORK'S   NEST  149 

ing,  "  Oh,  'Bije!    A  piano!    I  never  saw  one  in 
all  my  whole  life;  did  I,  gran'pop?  " 

"  I  guess  not,  honey,"  said  Hiram,  "  I  never 


air." 


"  But,  'Bije,"  cried  Emma,  "  you  can't  play  on 
it.  Nor  Mrs.  Stork;  nor  Si.  What  did  you  get 
it  for?" 

"  For  you,  Emmy,  that's  a  fact,"  said  'Bije, 
smiling  down  upon  her  till  his  light-gray  .eyes 
grew  darker  and  darker,  and  his  lips  showed  the 
pleasure  he  took  no  pains  to  conceal.  There  was 
nothing  in  his  face  but  love  and  respect  and 
resolution  to  win;  but  Benton  disliked  the  look 
and  he  turned  his  eyes  from  Emma  that  he  might 
not  see  an  answering  smile.  "  It's  your  piano, 
Emmy,  but  it  has  got  to  stay  in  my  house.  I 
thought  you'd  like  to  come  over  and  jingle  on  it 
and  that  '11  bring  you  oftener,  you  see.  Sister 
Crishy  don't  have  half  enough  of  you,  anyhow. 
So,  while  the  rest  were  off  fishing,  I  ran  up  to  St. 
Joe  and  brung  it  over." 

"  I'll  be  there  mighty  often,  I  know!"  cried 
Emma,  her  eyes  dancing  till  they  matched  the 
sunlight  in  her  golden  hair.  "  Just  think,  gran'- 
pop,  a  piano!"  And  she  executed  a  pirouette 
before  the  men.  But  to  Benton's  suspicious  fancy 
the  dance  was  all  for  the  benefit  of  King  Herod, 
who  held  his  piano  upon  a  charger  as  a  reward. 

"  Git  ap !  "  cried  'Bije  to  the  horses,  the  smile 
still  lingering  upon  his  face.  As  the  wagon 


150  STORK'S   NEST 

groaned  up  the  road  and  neared  the  turning,  Ben- 
ton  looked  back  for  a  last  glimpse  of  the  log 
cabin.  Hiram  had  turned  toward  the  door  and 
was  holding  up  his  feeble  old  leg  to  scratch  a 
match  while  his  pipe  hung  expectant  in  his  mouth. 
Emma  lingered  upon  the  top  rail  of  the  fence, 
standing  with  one  hand  grasping  a  limb  of  the 
catalpa  tree.  As  she  saw  Benton  turn  she  waved 
her  sunbonnet  violently  above  her  head.  Then 
the  scene  was  hidden  by  the  corner  of  the  wood. 
He  gave  a  furtive  glance  at  his  companion;  the 
smile  still  quivered  upon  'Bije's  lips.  At  last  that 
smile  faded  away  and  the  large  features  settled 
into  the  grave  and  almost  stern  look  which  was 
habitual  to  them.  But  Benton  was  too  preoccupied 
to  observe  the  change.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
he  could  rouse  himself  to  an  attempt  at  conversa- 
tion. Even  had  he  not  been  engrossed  by  reflec- 
tion and  memory,  there  was  something  about  his 
companion  which  forbade  the  thought  of  com- 
radeship. Presently  he  became  aware  that  the 
scene  was  one  he  had  never  observed  before.  It 
was  wild  and  showed  little  travel. 

"  This  is  not  the  way  I  went  to  your  house  with 
Mr.  Garrett  last  Monday,"  he  observed. 

"  I  expect  not,"  said  'Bije  briefly.  "  Git  ap, 
thar !  Nuck,  I  expect  not.  But  since  the  freshet, 
the  cattle  have  n't  been  drove  across  the  crick. 
Ever'  time  we  have  a  freshet  them  cattle  have  to 
be  drove  back  and  forth  to  allay  the  quicksands. 


STORK'S   NEST  151 

Them  quicksands  are  awful  dangerous  until 
trompled  down.  I  guess  somebody  will  lose  his 
life  in  'em  yet."  He  drove  on  for  a  while  in 
silence,  then  added:  "  So  we  have  to  go  around 
by  the  hill." 

There  was  something  in  the  way  he  spoke  of 
"  the  hill,"  as  if  there  were  no  other  in  compari- 
son with  it,  which  affected  the  younger  man 
unpleasantly.  He  made  no  reply,  but  occasionally 
cast  sidelong  glances  at  the  serious  face  which 
never  turned  his  way.  When  the  wood  was 
passed  the  road  led  to  an  ascent,  steep  and  appar- 
ently impassable,  that  stood  as  a  wall,  shutting 
out  the  rest  of  the  world.  At  its  base  the  road 
was  all  of  rock  over  which  the  uneasy  wagon 
jolted  with  loud  complaints.  Up  the  forbidding 
wall  faint  wagon  ruts  were  legible  as  if  to  convince 
the  timid  and  the  doubting  that  these  Alps  had 
been  crossed. 

"  This  must  be  the  hill !  "  Benton  exclaimed. 

"  Ben,"  said  'Bije  solemnly,  "  you  are  correct." 

"Had  n't  I  better  get  out  and  walk?"  the 
young  man  asked  in  dismay,  staring  up  the  ascent. 

"  Both  of  us  will  do  so,"  said  'Bije,  "  an'  I'm 
but  sorry  that  we  can't  carry  the  wagon."  The 
horses  had  stopped  without  waiting  for  the  invita- 
tion. They  got  out,  or,  to  speak  literally,  they 
got  off,  and  the  poor  old  wagon  started  up  the 
stone  wall.  The  horses  stepped  with  great  cau- 
tion, seeming  to  Benton  to  stand  upon  their  hind 


152  STORK'S   NEST 

legs,  as  they  felt  for  footholds  with  their  fore  feet, 
which  were  almost  before  their  faces.  Benton 
looked  back  at  the  huge  rocks  bordering  the  base, 
then  far  up  at  the  sky,  the  only  object  visible  at 
the  summit.  He  was  alarmed  for  the  horses,  for 
the  wagon  and  for  his  trunk.  He  could  not  but 
be  impressed  by  'Bije's  sturdy  tread  and  by  his 
impenetrable  calmness.  He  fancied  that  if  Emma 
could  see  him  now  her  admiration  in  her  suitor 
would  be  increased.  He  could  understand  the 
hold  'Bije  had  upon  her.  The  bold,  unyielding 
spirit,  the  great  strong  frame  and  the  handsome 
face  were  such  as  to  appeal  to  the  brave,  high- 
spirited  maiden. 

But  Benton's  forced  admiration  was  soon  dis- 
pelled. About  half-way  up  the  hill,  one  of  the 
horses  shied  and  the  wagon  was  in  danger  of  slid- 
ing over  a  ridge  of  stone. 

"  I'll  learn  you  to  git  scared  at  nothin',"  cried 
'Bije  in  a  voice  which  trembled  with  sudden 
passion.  Swinging  his  whip  above  his  head  he 
began  to  lash  the  frightened  animal  without 
mercy.  For  a  while  Benton  witnessed  the  beating 
with  compressed  lips,  but  when  he  saw  blood 
mingling  with  the  foam,  he  cried  out  sharply: 

"Don't!" 

'Bije  turned  and  stared  at  the  young  man  a 
moment,  his  brow  still  dark,  then  dropped  the 
whip.  They  had  reached  the  summit  almost  on  a 
run  and  it  was  with  difficulty  the  horses  could  be 


STORK'S   NEST  153 

held  for  them  to  get  into  the  wagon.  They  drove 
on  in  silence,  Benton  still  sickened  by  the  recent 
exhibition  of  the  other's  cruelty.  Suddenly  'Bije 
turned  toward  him:  "  Can  you  play  the  piano?  " 

"  No,"  Benton  answered  shortly. 

"  Know  anything  about  music?  " 

"  I  know  music  when  I  hear  it,  that's  all,"  said 
Benton. 

"  Well,  you're  right,  Ben,"  be  said  with  some 
heartiness.  "  I  always  thought  a  man  at  a  piano 
was  like  a  woman  at  the  polls,  both  of  'em  goin' 
against  the  grain  of  their  sect." 

This  was  the  end  of  all  conversation  between 
them,  'Bije's  face  settling  back  into  its  sternest, 
most  self-contained  expression,  as  if  his  thoughts 
had  traveled  ahead  to  work  in 'the  Snake  Room. 
At  last  the  road  turned  into  one  which  Benton 
remembered.  Old  'Thuze  had  carried  him  along 
these  familiar  ruts,  and  he  and  Emma  had  walked 
between  them  on  their  way  to  the  ford. 

When  they  stopped  before  the  Stork  mansion 
the  house  appeared  deserted  save  for  a  few  shutters 
hanging  half  open.  'Bije  leaped  to  the  ground 
and  began  to  unhitch,  at  the  same  time  shouting 
in  stentorian  tones,  "  Whoop-ee !  whoop-ee !  " 
Benton  offered  his  assistance. 

"  Nuck,"  said  'Bije,  "  jest  stand  out  of  the  way; 
that's  all  I  ask.  If  I  wanted  help  I'd  make  Jim 


come." 


Benton  flushed  and  drew  away,  feeling  that  he 


154  STORK'S    NEST 

was  "  learning  "  Emma's  suitor  rapidly.  Foot- 
steps sounded  from  the  hall.  One  of  the  horses 
was  now  almost  unharnessed  and  manifested  a  rest- 
lessness which  seemed  to  afford  'Bije  some  amuse- 
ment. "  He  knows  what's  coming,"  he  chuckled, 
hastily  slipping  the  harness  along  the  back,  then 
giving  the  beast  a  vicious  kick  in  the  side  as  he 
turned  it  loose.  "  All  my  horses  know  me !  " 

The  front  doo^r  opened,  and  Silas  appeared. 
He  advanced  to  meet  Benton,  the  hollows  of  good- 
nature coming  in  his  bushy  whiskers.  "  Well, 
brother,  here  you  air !  "  he  cried,  "  which  I 
have  n't  saw  since  boated  away  by  Hicky  Price,  as 
graspin'  an'  stingy  a  soul  as  I  ever  rubbed  up 
ag'inst.  An'  I  disremember  if  we  shuck  hands. 
Yous  know,  when  yous  dumb  out  'f  Glover's 
shack,  they  was  n't  no  time  for  ceremonials.  Let's  f 
do  it  now,  pardner,  for  it's  werried  me,  fearin' 
it  was  neglected  afterwards."  He  wrung  Ben- 
ton's  hand  vigorously.  The  young  man  helped 
to  carry  his  trunk  up  the  familiar  staircase.  As 
they  passed  the  Snake  Room,  the  newcomer  looked 
furtively  at  'Bije,  but  that  mysterious  person 
showed  a  countenance  of  unusual  frankness  and 
unconcern.  He  found  Emma  right  in  her  sup- 
position that  he  was  to  share  Jim  Whitlick's  bed- 
room at  the  end  of  the  shorter  hall.  It  was  a 
cheerless  room,  unpapered  and  uncarpeted,  all  the 
uglier  for  its  wide  extent. 

"  They  hain't  nothin'  much  here,"  said  Silas, 


STORK'S    NEST  155 

waving  his  arm  as  Benton  looked  down  the  stretch 
of  bare  discolored  planks,  for  the  apartment  was 
as  long  as  the  longer  hall,  "  but  what  they  is  goes 
a  long  ways !  "  There  were  five  windows  with 
brown  paper  shades,  their  upper  casements  fes- 
tooned with  cobwebs.  A  dry  goods  box  served  as 
washstand,  while  above  it,  tacked  to  the  dingy 
plastering,  hung  a  broken  bit  of  looking  glass,  its 
edges  sewn  up  in  black  cambric.  In  a  remote 
corner  stood  another  dry  goods  box,  its  contents 
showing  bottles  of  diverse  shapes  and  colors. 

"  Jim's  physic,"  Silas  explained  genially. 
"  Jim,  he's  in  the  yard,  mopin',  I  reckon.  He 
hain't  no  time  for  it  but  of  Sundays."  The  bed 
was  rather  short  and  narrow,  advising  Benton's 
disconsolate  eye  that  it  would  bring  him  to  close 
quarters  with  its  occupant.  There  were  two 
stools,  which  had  once  been  chairs,  and  another, 
to  which  a  round  of  the  departed  back  still  clung. 
"  Now  make  yourself  't  'ome,"  said  Silas,  "  in 
your  boo-draw!  Come  down  when  you're 
ready." 

"  Yap,"  said  'Bije,  speaking  for  the  first  time, 
"  I  will  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  by 
and  by." 

Cheerless  as  the  room  was,  Benton  lingered  a 
long  time,  musing  over  the  situation,  seeking  to 
disengage  his  mind  from  the  memories  which  drew 
it  toward  Hiram's  cabin,  and  disposing  the  con- 
tents of  his  trunk  to  suit  his  convenience.  Jim's 


156  STORK'S   NEST 

garments,  few  in  number,  hung  upon  nails  along 
the  wall;  and  the  new  arrival  took  possession  of 
other  nails.  At  last  he  went  below. 

Before  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  dis- 
covered a  woman  standing  in  the  front  hall,  alone. 
She  was  very  tall  and  very  thin,  but,  thin  as  she 
was,  the  black  calico  skirt  clung  to  her  meager 
frame  with  exceeding  tightness,  as  if  she  had 
entered  into  partnership  with  nature  for  the 
economy  of  her  wardrobe.  Her  hair  was  wound 
tightly  upon  her  head  till  each  strand  appeared 
at  a  tension,  as  if  it  were  by  this  means  that  she 
kept  herself  going  through  the  day.  The  face 
was  sallow,  the  chin  sharp  and  long,  while  the  nose 
crooked  downward,  as  if  drooping  with  despond- 
ency. The  eyes,  restless  and  shrinking,  had  a 
way  of  suddenly  darting  toward  an  object,  show- 
ing a  quick  gleam  of  their  whites  and  retiring  like 
a  beaten  beast  of  prey.  As  Benton  reached  the 
last  step  he  suffered  such  a  visitation. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  cor- 
dially. "  I  am  Benton  Cabot." 

The  eyes  crept  toward  him,  the  whites  glared 
at  him  an  instant,  the  hooked  nose  drooped  lower, 
the  chin  was  farther  extended,  and  the  lady 
answered,  as  she  looked  away:  "I  air  a  jail- 
woman!  " 

Benton,  a  good  deal  astonished  and  discomfited 
by  this  declaration  and  secretly  glad  that  he  had 
locked  his  trunk,  found  at  first  no  remark  which  he 


STORK'S   NEST  157 

deemed  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  Presently 
he  ventured,  "  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  tell  it,"  said  the  other,  treating 
him  to  another  display  of  the  whites  of  her  eyes. 

Benton,  wondering  why  she  had  imparted  the 
information  which  gave  her  so  little  comfort,  said : 
"Can  I  see  Mrs.  Stork?" 

"  Look  at  her,"  said  the  other  sourly.  There 
was  silence,  while  she  stared  through  the  open 
door,  mutely  offering  herself  as  an  object  of 
examination ;  but  the  young  man  hardly  did  justice 
to  the  opportunity.  Presently  Mrs.  Silas  Stork 
resumed:  "I  kin  see  that  yous  was  not  brung 
up  to  our  ways,  Benton  Cabot,  an'  I'm  afeerd 
you'll  take  a  tumble.  For  yous  have  got  to  be 
brung  up  to  our  ways  to  keep  on  top  of  'em. 
You've  never  lived  up  in  this  kentry.  You'll 
have  to  buckle  your  mind  to  take  us  as  we  air  or 
git  out.  Which  '11  it  be  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  sudden 
display  of  hostility  in  tone  and  look.  In  spite  of 
her  close  fitting  dress,  she  drew  one  leg  up  under 
her  at  this  juncture,  saying:  "We  air  Storks!" 

"  I  shall  stay,"  said  Benton  quietly.  "  I  hope 
you  do  not  object,  Mrs.  Stork,  to  my  coming." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  nothin'  about  me  objectin'. 
Jail-women  hain't  nothin'  to  do  with  objectin'. 
Jail-women  nuther  lets  nor  on-lets." 

Benton  was  relieved  by  hearing  a  door  open 
upstairs.  Silas  Stork  descended  to  the  hall. 

"Well,  brother,   here  yous  are!"     Silas  said 


158  STORK'S   NEST 

heartily.  "  Le's  all  go  set  down;  it's  jest  as  cheap 
as  standin',  of  a  Sunday!  "  He  led  the  way  to 
the  dining-room. 

Benton  looked  wistfully  at  the  window  in  which 
Emma  had  sat,  swinging  her  feet;  at  the  shelf 
from  which  she  had  taken  down  the  illustrated 
newspapers;  at  the  table  upon  which  she  had 
bowed  her  head  to  weep.  He  felt  an  intense  long- 
ing to  see  her,  to  be  with  her.  The  very  floor 
upon  which  she  had  stood  spoke  of  his  young 
friend. 

Mrs.  Stork  seated  herself,  and  crossed  her  legs, 
looking  sourly. 

"  Ben,"  said  Silas,  sitting  down,  "  I'll  tell  yous 
what  work  you'll  be  required  of.  You're  a  gentle- 
man an'  it's  our  purpose  to  keep  yous  one,  if  any 
bolsterin'  an'  proppin'  of  our'n  kin  do  it.  Your 
dad  an'  me  was  bosom  friends  in  the  war,  an'  for 
the  son  of  that  bosom  friend  I'd  do  anythin' 
reasonable,  no  matter  how  great  a  scallywag  that 
son  might  turn  out  to  be.  Now  we  don't  'low  to 
put  yous  to  the  hard  an'  menial  labor  to  which 
Jim  Whitlicks,  bein'  a  orphan,  is  devoted  by 
nature.  We  jest  want  yous  to  be  a  gentleman." 

"  That  is  kind,"  said  Benton,  smiling,  "  but  I 
have  come  here  expecting  to  work.  The  open  air 
and  the  exercise  in  the  fields  will  be  a  blessing  for 
my  health.  And,  besides,  I  imagine  you  are  too 
good  a  business  man  to  pay  me  simply  to  be  a 
gentleman." 


STORK'S   NEST  159 

"  Nevertheless,  brother,  sich  air  our  resolve, 
for  to  keep  yous  a  gentleman  at  any  price." 

"Then,"  spoke  up  Mrs.  Stork  bitterly,  "it 
hain't  no  place  for  sich  a  character  bein'  housed 
up  with  a  jail-woman." 

"Where  air  a  jail-woman?"  asked  Silas 
mildly. 

"  Me !  "  said  the  other  with  exceeding  fierce- 
ness. "  Yous  know  I  air  a  jail-woman,  Si  Stork, 
an*  nothin'  but  it.  The  neighbors  know  it.  Any- 
body kept  on  bread  an'  water  all  her  life  air  a  jail- 
woman  !  " 

"  Why !  Crishy,  wa'n't  they  some  molasses 
on  the  table  this  very  mornin'  ?  " 

"  Bread  an'  water  all  my  life!  "  cried  the  lady 
in  great  agitation,  "  bread  an'  water!  " 

"  Ben,"  said  Silas  in  an  injured  tone,  "  some 
molasses  were  on  the  table  this  mornin',  an'  plenty 
of  'em.  Now  a  gentleman  you  air  to  be. 
Incidental  to  the  strain  that  will  put  yous  to, 
we'll  want  yous  to  feed  the  stock  ever'  mornin' 
when  feedin'  time  comes,  an'  the  hogs  ever'  night, 
if  you'll  be  so  kind,  an'  cut  weeds  through  the 
middle  of  the  day  till  time  to  break  our  broom 
corn.  Moreover,  we're  clearin'  down  in  the 
woods,  an'  between  whiles,  yous  kin  len'  a  hand 
with  your  ax,  if  so  disposed,  an',  when  the  wood 
is  to  be  corded  up  an'  drove  to  Laclede  Station, 
yous  kin  help  in  the  pastime.  It's  jest  like  a 
picnic,  clearin'  the  woods  air,  a  reg'lar  woodin' 


160  STORK'S   NEST 

bee.  All  our  work  is  like  play.  Also,  I  do  a  heaps 
of  drivin'  over  the  kentry,  buyin'  up  odd  calves 
an1  cows,  an'  yous  kin  go  along,  if  you  hain't  no 
objection,  an'  drive  'em  home,  all  the  time  yous 
air  bein'  a  gentleman.  An'  that  hain't  all,  but 
enough  to  show  yous  that,  if  exercise  air  need- 
ful to  your  health,  yous  won't  need  nothin'  but 
long  hair  an'  a  wife  to  be  a  reg'lar  Samson 
by-an'-by." 

Benton  laughed,  and  Silas,  too,  appeared  to 
enjoy  the  monologue,  for  the  hollows  deepened  in 
his  whiskers  as  a  smile  sucked  in  the  corners  of 
his  mouth. 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  Stork  bitterly,  "  this 
sounds  mighty  prosperous  to  yous,  Ben.  An'  it 
air.  They's  more  money  made  here  than  arry 
other  farm  of  its  size  an'  rockiness.  But  nobody 
never  sees  that  money  but  Si  an'  'Bije.  It  don't 
do  no  good,  nor  no  harm,  nuther.  Here  I  air,  a 
jail-woman,  kept  on  bread  an*  water,  scrapin'  an' 
grindin'  to  help  hoard  up  wealth  for  to  leave  to 
strangers  at  our  death!  " 

"  Now,  Crishy,"  said  Silas  heartily,  "  cheer 
up,  ole  woman,  an'  git  a  contented  sperit  on  you. 
It  costs  man  no  more  to  be  contented  than  fault 
findin',  an'  its  pow'ful  more  elervatin'  to  the 
feelin's  of  others." 

"All  my  life,"  cried  Mrs.  Stork,  excitedly 
swaying  her  uplifted  foot  to  and  fro,  "  I  have 
hankered  for  what  other  women  has — pictures  an' 


STORK'S   NEST  161 

fixin's  an'  carpets  an'  good  eatin'.  I  thought  when 
I  married  I  was  gittin'  somethin'  else  besides  a 
man.  But  that's  all  I  got.  Thar  he  sets.  His 
name  is  Si  Stork." 

"  It  air,"  said  Silas  kindly,  "  an'  that  name, 
Ben,  air  the  only  thing  I  kin  remember  ever  givin' 
away,  free  an'  willin'.  But  when  I  give  that 
name  to  Crishy,  an'  adorned  her  with  it,  I  done 
it  as  free  as  ever  I  took  money  from  mortal 


man." 


Mrs.  Stork,  unappeased  by  this  courtliness, 
cried:  "  Bread  an'  water!  bread  an' water!  " 

"  Crishy,"  said  Silas  in  a  low  tone,  "  'Bijey  air 
comin',  ole  woman!"  Footsteps  were  heard 
descending  the  stairs  and  the  giant  form  of  the 
other  twin  entered  the  dining-room.  'Bije  for  a 
moment  keenly  regarded  all  three,  while  his  light 
gray  eyes  deepened  in  the  peculiar  manner  Benton 
had  before  observed.  Then  he  said: 

"  Sister  Crishy,  you  will  kindly  retire." 

The  lady  withdrew  without  so  much  as  show- 
ing her  brother-in-law  the  whites  of  her  eyes. 

"  Si,"  said  'Bije,  "  pray  go  to  the  back  porch 
an'  wait  thar  till  I  come." 

"  All  right,  'Bijey,"  said  Silas,  obeying  with 
alacrity. 

A  spirit  of  antagonism  rose  up  within  the  young 
man.  "Do  you  want  me  to  go,  too?"  he 
inquired.  "  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  be  alone." 

"  I  wish  to  speak  with  you,"  said  'Bije  shortly. 


1 62  STORK'S   NEST 

For  a  while  he  stared  out  of  the  window.  "  Ben, 
has  Si  told  you  something  of  your  work?  " 

"  In  general  terms,"  Benton  replied  briefly. 

"  Ben,  do  your  duty,  and  you'll  find  us  kind  and 
friendly."  The  voice  deepened  and  grew  more 
powerful.  "  Every  business  must  have  a  head. 
I'm  the  head  of  ours.  What  I  say,  goes;  under- 
stand? If  anybody  crosses  me,  or  tries  to  look 
into  my  ways,  or  explore  my  doings — well,  I  don't 
like  it." 

"  I  think  you'll  find,"  said  Benton  quietly, 
"  that  I  do  not  interfere  in  other  people's  affairs." 

"  If  you  think  so  now,"  was  the  response, 
"  you'll  know  it,  later.  Warning  in  time — that's 
all.  Take  me  as  you  find  me,  I'll  prove  a  pow'ful 
good  friend.  For  I  have  power,  as  all  know  who 
know  me.  But  if  anybody  tries  to  meddle  with 
me,  I  am  not  a  friend.  That's  all.  Jim  Whit- 
licks  is  in  the  yard.  You  may  join  him." 

There  was  something  so  final  in  'Bije's  manner 
that  when  he  spoke  there  seemed  no  other  course 
but  to  obey.  Benton  found  himself  leaving  the 
room  as  quickly  and  silently  as  the  others  had 
done.  Yet,  even  while  he  obeyed,  that  feeling  of 
antagonism  rose  high  and  he  felt  that,  before  he 
returned  to  Blair  City,  he  and  the  master  would 
cross  arms.  Under  a  remote  box  elder  Jim  Whit- 
licks  was  perched  upon  the  high  iron  seat  of  a 
mowing  machine,  which  was  taking  its  Sunday  rest. 
Even  Jim's  despondent  look  cheered  Benton  as 


STORK'S   NEST  163 

the  well  known  characteristic  of  a  friend.  Jim 
was  one  of  the  leading  characters  in  the  little 
drama  of  the  flood;  Emma  had  patted  his 
shoulder  and  given  him  some  of  her  smiles.  Still, 
Benton's  manner  was  preoccupied  as  he  shook  the 
other's  limp  hand  with  the  perfunctory:  "How 
are  you,  Jim?  " 

"  I'm  mighty  poorly,  that's  how  I  am,"  said 
Jim,  drawing  his  shoulders  up.  "  But  take  a  seat 
on  the  tongue,  Ben;  I'm  glad  you've  came.  I 
jest  taken  the  iron  seat  'cause  I  was  that  miser'ble 
it  did  n't  seem  right  to  be  sittin'  soft  with  all  my 
troubles.  See  that  hoe  hangin'  on  the  tree?  Got 
to  cut  weeds  with  that  to-morrow." 

"  I'll  cut  by  your  side,  Jim,"  said  Benton.  "  I 
mean  to  develop  my  muscle  and  get  strong  and 
hearty." 

"  It  have  made  me  fur  otherwise,"  said  Jim 
skeptically. 

"  I'm  sorry  you're  not  feeling  well,"  said  Ben- 
ton  absently. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  hain't  never  well.  Somethin' 
is  allers  threatenin'  me;  but  if  I  was  well  it 
would  n't  be  no  comfort  with  all  the  troubles  I've 
got.  I  might  jest  as  well  be  sick  along  with  the 
rest  of  it." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Benton,  hoping  to  cheer 
him  up,  "  did  you  buy  your  medicine?  " 

"  I  hain't  got  to  go  to  Laclede  Station.  Besides, 
I  hain't  so  shore  I've  got  what  I  thought  I  had. 


164  STORK'S   NEST 

Now  I've  been  readin' — "  he  hastily  drew  a  new 
almanac  from  his  pocket. 

"  Jim,"  the  other  quickly  interposed,  "  are  you 
going  to  church  to-day?  " 

"  Hain't  never  went  in  my  life.  Why,  Ben,  I 
hain't  never  got  to  go  to  a  circus,  much  less 
church !  I  hain't  gone  nowhar  but  after  the  cows, 
I  might  say.  The  goin'  part  was  left  out  'f  my 
bones,  I  guess.  But  they's  one  place  I  kin  go  to," 
he  added  with  a  sudden  show  of  spirit,  "  an'  even 
'Bije  can't  keep  me  from  it;  that  place  air  the 
grave.  I  estimate  it  at  about  a  year's  journey  for 
me  at  my  present  progress.  I  won't  never  live  to 
be  eighteen  to  git  out  of  bondage;  yous  need  n't 
think  it !  " 

He  looked  so  sallow,  shrunken  and  weather- 
beaten  that  Benton  feared  this  estimate  might  not 
be  incorrect.  Before  he  could  attempt  words  of 
encouragement  Silas  Stork  came  to  them  from  the 
house. 

"  Well,  pardners,"  he  said  genially,  "  I  want 
you-all  to  take  a  nice  holiday  down  to  the  shady 
brook.  You-all  need  n't  come  to  the  house  till 
horn  blowin'.  I'll  bring  your  lunch  to  yous. 
Jim,  take  him  all  over  the  farm ;  enjoy  yourselves. 
So  long;  so  long!  " 

Benton  was  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  a  day  in 
the  pastures  and  wood,  but  Jim  remarked  when 
they  had  left  the  yard,  "  That  only  means  they 
want  us  to  keep  away  from  the  house.  They's 


STORK'S    NEST  165 

business  in  what  Emmy  calls  the  Snake  Room, 
most  likely.  Oh,  I  know  'em,  I  know*  em !  But  it 
don't  give  me  no  satisfaction  when  I  do,"  he 
added  hastily,  "  nor  nothin'  else." 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  said  Benton,  "I  wish 
you'd  show  me  the  farm  first  and  we'll  rest  at 
the  brook  afterward.  Don't  you  want  to  take 
the  walk?  " 

"  I  can't  say  as  I  want  to,"  returned  Jim,  "  but 
I  hain't  no  more  ag'in  that  than  anythin'  else. 
Come  on." 

At  noon  Silas  brought  them  a  scanty  lunch  and 
it  was  dark  before  the  horn  sounded  a  cheery  blast 
from  the  back  door.  The  supper  was  light. 
There  was  a  plentiful  dish  of  bonny  clabber  X 
cheese,  one  hard  boiled  egg  apiece,  and  cold  batter 
cakes. 

"  We  never  have  warm  meals,"  said  Silas 
cheerfully,  "  therefore  no  coffee.  Crishy  cooks 
up  between  whiles  an'  serves  cold.  Warm  victuals 
leads  man  to  eat  more'n  his  assimilation  requires. 
For  the  same  princible,  we  never  employ  butter. 
You  take  bread,  an'  it  air  the  staff  of  life,  I  don't 
deny  it,  but  it  air  meant  to  be  leaned  on,  an'  not 
to  be  buttered  an'  gormandized.  An'  milk  an' 
cream, — if  we  consumed  'em,  where's  the  profit  of 
cows?  Sich  things  makes  man  overload  his 
stomick,  of  which  he  can't  be  too  keerful.  It  is  a 
mighty  tender  organ.  Don't  tell  me  it  wa'n't 
intended  to  be  took  express  keer  of.  If  that  organ 


1 66  STORK'S    NEST 

was  n't  dangerous  to  tamper  with,  I  guess  it 
would  n't  of  been  put  on  the  insides  of  us !  " 

As  they  rose  from  the  table  'Bije  said:  "  Ben, 
we  go  to  bed  early.  As  a  regular  thing  Jim  will 
sleep  with  you.  But  to-night  I  have  need  of  him. 
So  you  can  go  up,  alone,  if  you  don't  mind." 

:<  We  have  no  lamps,  for  ordinary,"  said  Silas 
genially,  "  but  if  yous  should  ever  need  one,  Ben, 
jest  come  to  me,  an1  I'll  hunt  you  one  up." 

Jim  had  a  parting  word  with  Benton  in  the  hall. 
"  I  don't  know  why  I  hain't  to  sleep  with  yous," 
he  whined.  "  I  never  slept  downstairs  before,  an' 
I  know  I'll  ketch  cold;  but  that  '11  be  a  piece  with 
all  the  rest.  Better  go  to  bed  early,  Ben,  then 
when  they  git  yous  up  before  day  you'll  be  glad 
you  done  it !  " 

"  Well,"  said  Silas,  who  had  softly  approached 
from  behind,  "  I  'low  'Bije  wants  to  let  Ben  git 
used  to  the  room  one  night,  and  used  to  Jim  the 
next.  Good-night,  Jimmy.  Ben,  shall  we  go  up?  " 

Benton  followed  the  affable  Silas  Stork  to  the 
second  story,  uncertain  which  of  the  twins  he  found 
the  more  distasteful.  He  foresaw  hard  work  and 
open  air  exercise  in  plenty,  but,  with  such  associates, 
he  derived  no  satisfaction  from  the  prospect.  As 
soon  as  he  was  better  acquainted  in  the  neighbor- 
hood he  might  find  more  agreeable  companions. 
No  doubt  he  could  secure  work  at  another  home 
where  the  supper  table  was  not  graced  with  cold 
batter  cakes.  For  the  present  he  would  conceal, 


STORK'S   NEST  167 

if  possible,  his  antipathy  to  Silas  and  'Bije,  his  dis- 
trust of  Mrs.  Stork,  and  his  doubt  about  the  Snake 
Room. 

As  soon  as  he  had  vanished  above  'Bije  entered 
the  lower  hall  and  found  Jim  standing  motionless 
and  dejected,  gazing  up  the  flight  of  stairs. 
"  Jim,"  said  'Bije,  striding  forward  and  speaking 
in  a  low,  hoarse  undertone,  "  what  were  you  say- 
ing to  our  young  gentleman?  " 

"  I  was  a-sayin',"  said  Jim  uneasily,  "  that  I 
did  n't  know  why  I  was  to  sleep  downstairs,  an' 
him  up?  " 

"Oh,  you  were  saying  that,  were  you?" 
remarked  'Bije  gruffly.  "Well,  I  thought  I'd 
learned  you  not  to  wonder  about  my  orders!  I 
guess  you  can't  ever  learn!  Come!  I'll  give  you 
another  lesson,  my  lad." 

The  huge  hands  suddenly  leaped  forward  and 
each  grasped  an  ear  of  the  unfortunate  orphan. 
The  boy  was  swung  clear  of  the  floor  and  held 
aloft  by  his  ears,  while  an  expression  of  acute 
agony  disfigured  his  face.  'Bije  threw  back  his 
great  head  and  laughed  silently,  his  mouth 
stretched  wide.  "Call  for  your  friend!"  'Bije 
counseled,  still  clutching  the  delicate  organs  in  his 
remorseless  fingers. 

"  Mrs.  Stork!  "  pleaded  Jim,  "  Mrs.  Stork!  " 
He  called  in  a  guarded  voice,  knowing  that  if  he 
made  his  punishment  known  to  Benton,  it  would 
but  prolong  his  agony.  Mrs.  Stork  heard  the  call 


1 68  STORK'S   NEST 

and,  recognizing  the  accent  of  pain,  ran  with  all 
speed  to  the  hall. 

"  Please  let  him  down,  'Bije!  "  she  cried,  wring- 
ing her  hands.  Sympathy  for  the  other's  suffer- 
ings humanized  her  face  and  made  her  a  different 
woman. 

"  He's  been  carping  to  Ben,"  said  'Bije,  swing- 
ing Jim  slightly  back  and  forth.  "  Do  you  think 
you  can  persuade  him  to  stop  carping,  sister 
Crishy?" 

"  Oh,  yes!  Oh,  yes!  "  cried  Mrs.  Stork  in  an 
agony  of  impatience;  "  please,  let  him  down,  'Bije, 
please  do!  " 

Jim  uttered  a  groan,  and,  unable  longer  to 
endure  the  torment,  scratched  at  the  hands 
which  held  him  aloft. 

'Bije,  with  a  snarl,  threw  him  violently  against 
the  wall  and  turned  on  Mrs.  Stork.  "  Now,  you 
see  that  you  don't  carp,  either!  "  he  said,  and 
strode  away. 

In  the  meantime  Benton  had  gained  his  room. 
Drawing  a  stool  to  the  open  window,  he  sat  down 
to  look  out  upon  the  darkening  world  and  to 
meditate  for  a  while  upon  the  little  characteristics 
he  had  noticed  in  the  Storks,  each  of  which 
seemed  to  indicate  a  disposition  repugnant  to  his 
own.  But  his  mind,  soothed  by  the  softened  fields 
and  woods,  presently  slipped  away  from  the 
Stork's  Nest,  and  went  on  a  starlight  visit  to  the 
log  cabin.  It  was  such  a  breeze  as  this,  laden 


STORK'S   NEST  169 

with  these  wild  perfumes,  which  had  soothed  his 
brow  in  Hiram's  yard.  He  seemed  to  see  the  old 
man  sitting  with  chair  tipped  back  against  the  cabin 
wall,  his  pipe  making  a  dull  glow  in  the  dusky  air. 
And  Emma ! — he  saw  her  sweet  face  growing 
paler  and  paler  and  her  hair  a  darker  and  a  darker 
gold  in  the  increasing  gloom.  He  heard  her  fresh 
girlish  voice;  he  saw  her  bright  eyes  questioning. 
As  he  drummed  idly  upon  the  window  sill,  the 
door  suddenly  opened.  'Bije  Stork  towered  in  the 
doorway. 

"  Why,  Ben,"  said  'Bije,  "  you  did  n't  lock  your 
door.  Better;  tramps  are  abroad  and  Hezzie's 
ghost  is  always  liable  to  'light.  Why !  I'm  afraid 
I  scared  you !  Well,  I  generally  am  around  'most 
everywheres.  I  hope  you  have  your  trunk  key 
safe." 

Benton,  displeased  at  the  intrusion,  returned: 
"  Yes,  it's  safe  enough." 

"  Better  lock  up  tight,"  said  'Bije,  departing. 
A  deeper  sense  of  homesickness  settled  upon  the 
young  man.  He  longed  to  be  with  Hiram,  even 
if  the  wind  did  blow  from  the  east.  He  drew  the 
key  from  his  pocket;  but,  as  he  continued  to  tap 
upon  the  window  sill,  suddenly  it  slipped  from  his 
fingers  and  fell  into  a  rosebush  growing  beside  the 
wall.  He  started  up  nervously,  then  reflected  that 
it  would  be  safe  till  morning  where  it  lay.  The 
darkness  became  intense.  He  felt  his  way  from 
the  window,  and  went  to  bed. 


A    STRANGE    BURGLAR 

FOR 'a  longtime  Benton  found  it  impossible 
to  sleep.  Although  he  was  greatly  fatigued 
from  his  unwonted  labor,  a  certain  indefin- 
able uneasiness  kept  him  tossing  in  bed.  He 
thought  of  his  trunk  key  lying  upon  the  ground 
where  he  had  dropped  it.  Nobody  was  likely  to 
find  it  in  the  rosebush;  but,  if  it  were  found,  what 
then?  There  was  nothing  in  his  trunk  that  could 
be  of  value  to  others;  clothes,  books,  papers — 
these  were  all. 

Perhaps  at  last  he  went  to  sleep,  though  of  this 
he  could  not  be  sure.  He  heard  the  room  door 
creak.  It  had  not  been  unlocked,  but  opened! 
The  room  was  so  dark  he  could  not  even  see  the 
white  of  his  pillow.  His  first  impulse  was  to  cry 
out,  but  the  next  instant  he  reflected  that,  if  he  did 
so,  he  would  probably  be  strangled  or  stabbed. 
He  would  wait  till  the  housebreaker  had  left  the 
room,  then  alarm  the  family.  The  door  gave 
forth  no  more  noise.  No  footstep  was  to  be 
heard.  What  was  about  to  happen? 

Benton  reflected  that  the  robber  probably 
carried  a  dark  lantern  and  that  a  light  would  soon 

170 


A    STRANGE   BURGLAR  171 

be  flashed  about  the  room.  If  he  should  be  found 
with  eyes  staring  into  the  darkness  it  might  cost 
him  his  life.  Cautiously  he  worked  the  edge  of 
the  sheet  over  his  face,  then  breathed  as  if  asleep. 
Suddenly,  through  the  sheet,  he  saw  a  light  flash 
forth  and  swiftly  circle  about  the  room;  then  it 
vanished.  He  strained  his  ears,  but  all  was  still. 
At  last,  however,  an  almost  inaudible  sound  told 
him  that  the  clothes  which  he  had  left  upon  a 
stool  were  being  examined.  His  money  would 
be  found  in  them.  It  seemed  a  long  time  before 
the  light  again  flashed  forth;  this  time  it  sought 
out  every  nook  of  the  apartment.  He  knew  it 
rested  upon  him.  When  it  vanished,  he  heard  his 
knife,  the  gift  of  a  friend,  click  upon  the  table. 
Presently  he  heard  his  trunk  softly  shaken;  it  was 
locked.  Suddenly  there  was  a  hand  at  his  pillow. 
Benton  lay  quite  still.  The  hand  drew  forth  his 
watch,  then  felt  again,  first  on  one  side,  then  on 
the  other.  Benton  thought  of  that  knife  in  the 
hand  of  the  burglar,  and  made  no  motion.  Then 
the  watch  was  thrust  back  under  his  pillow.  The 
young  man  was  astonished  to  hear  again  its  famil- 
iar ticking.  Absolute  silence  followed,  which 
soon  became  intolerable.  There  were  matches  in 
the  room  and,  though  it  seemed  certain  that  the 
burglar  was  still  concealed  somewhere  in  the 
darkness,  Benton  resolved  to  put  an  end  to  the  sus- 
pense. Suddenly  casting  from  him  the  bedclothes, 
he  leaped  for  the  door.  His  eager  hand  found 


172  STORK'S   NEST 

the  knob;  it  was  locked.  This  indicated  that  the 
intruder  was  still  present.  Fearing  at  each  in- 
stant that  the  light  would  be  flashed  upon  him, 
the  young  man  unlocked  the  door,  sprang  into 
the  dark  hall  and,  slamming  the  door  to,  held  the 
knob  in  a  firm  grip  as  he  shouted  alarm  to  the 
household. 

At  first  there  was  no  answer  but  the  echo  of 
his  voice.  Then  came  the  hurried  sound  of  bare 
feet.  A  light  appeared  from  around  the  angle 
of  the  hall  and  'Bije  ran  toward  him,  holding  a 
lamp.  He  was  in  his  night  clothes.  Silas  Stork 
followed  almost  immediately.  Benton  in  a  few 
hurried  words  told  what  had  happened. 

"  Got  him  in  a  trap,  hey?  "  cried  'Bije  gruffly. 
'  Well,  we'll  fix  him !  Throw  open  the  door." 
They  made  a  rush  into  the  room,  but  the  lamp 
revealed  no  crouching  form  in  its  long,  bare  ex- 
tent. "  Must  have  got  out,"  'Bije  remarked. 
"  Jumped  from  a  window,  maybe.  Si,  you  get 
Jim  and  search  the  premises.  I'll  examine  these 
windows." 

"  'Bijey,"  said  Silas,  hesitating  at  the  threshold, 
"  must  I  light  another  lamp?  " 

"Why,  of  course,"  retorted  'Bije.  "When 
robbers  are  around,  it's  no  timfe  to  economize  on 
coal  oil.  Hurry  up,  Si ;  I  tell  you  this  is  an  awful 
thing !  " 

Silas  hurried  away,  calling  Jim  Whitlicks  at 
every  step.  'Bije  carefully  examined  the  win- 


A   STRANGE  BURGLAR          173 

dows,  but  at  each  examination  shook  his  huge 
head  with  an  air  of  disappointment.  "  No 
tracks,"  he  commented. 

Benton  thought  'Bije  more  disagreeable  in  his 
night  clothes  than  in  his  day  dress.  His  hair  was 
tossed  roughly  about  his  head;  his  neck  was  long 
and  uncompromising;  his  feet  very  broad  but 
unashamed. 

"  And  you  found  the  door  locked  just  as  you 
left  it,  with  the  key  in  the  lock?  "  said  'Bije;  "  and 
your  watch  was  put  back  under  your  pillow? 
And  here's  your  knife  and  money!  And  your 
clothes,  none  of  the  pockets  turned  inside  out; 
and  your  trunk  not  broken  open!  Everything's 
here,  is  it?  " 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Benton,  still  won- 
dering at  finding  his  money  restored  to  the  table. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  'Bije,  "  I  wonder  if  what 
I  told  you  about  housebreakers  did  n't  give  you 
a  dream?  " 

"  Mr.  Stork,  it  was  not  a  dream,"  said  Benton, 
slightly  flushing. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  'Bije,  "  you  must  admit  it's 
curious.  Now  that's  all  I  want  of  you,  Benton; 
just  admit  it's  curious,  will  you?  " 

"  Indeed,  it  is,"  cried  Benton,  looking  at  his 
watch  again  and  then  recounting  his  money. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  it,"  exclaimed  'Bije 
apparently  with  some  relief.  "Yap;  but  how 
that  door  could  be  unlocked  with  your  key  in  the 


174  STORK'S   NEST 

lock  is  curious.  And  everything's  here,  you  say. 
Wait!  Ha!  Hold  on!  I  have  it!"  'Bije 
struck  the  table  triumphantly  with  his  fist  and 
cried:  "The  trunk  key!  where's  that,  Ben? 
You  don't  find  that  in  your  clothes.  Ha!  so, 
so!" 

"  Not  at  all,"  Benton  hastened  to  assure  him. 
"  I  know  he  did  n't  take  the  key  because  it  was  n't 
here.  I  accidentally  dropped  it  out  the  window 
before  I  went  to  bed  and  I  thought  I'd  leave  it 
there  till  morning  instead  of  disturbing  you  by 
getting  it.  So  it  was  n't  in  here,  at  all." 

"  Good,  good!  "  cried  'Bije.  "  Ha,  ha,  ha!  " 
'Bije  began  to  laugh,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  en- 
joy it  very  much.  "  It's  certain  the  wretch  came 
here  for  that  key,  Benton;  else  why  come?  He 
did  n't  want  your  knife,  or  your  watch,  or  your 
money.  He  wanted  that  key." 

"But  why?"  asked  Benton.  "There's  noth- 
ing at  all  in  my  trunk  but  clothes,  books  and 
papers." 

"  He  did  n't  know  that,  of  course,"  said  'Bije, 
sitting  upon  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  crossing  his 
feet  in  such  a  way  that  his  toes  seemed  to  look 
up  at  Benton.  "  Do  you  remember  my  asking 
you  before  you  went  to  bed  if  you'd  lost  your 
trunk  key?.  He  may  have  been  around,  listening. 
That  may  have  made  him  think  you'd  got  valu- 
ables in  the  trunk.  What  sort  of  papers,  now,  my 
dear  fellow,  do  you  carry  around  in  your  trunk?  " 


A    STRANGE   BURGLAR  175 

"  Oh — just  letters,"  said  Benton,  impatient  at 
the  term  of  affection,  "  and  blank  sheets  and  note- 
books." 

"  Ah,  yap,  certainly,"  said  'Bije,  wiggling  his 
toes  successively,  beginning  with  the  little  one  on 
his  right  foot  and  ending  with  the  little  one  on  his 
left. 

"  And  some  mining  stock  certificates,"  said 
Benton. 

"  Yap,  yap,"  said  'Bije  gruffly. 

"  But  they're  not  worth  the  paper  they're 
printed  on,"  said  Benton;  "my  father  lost  his 
money  in  California  mines  and  all  I  have  to  show 
for  it  are  these  pretty  certificates." 

"  Well,"  said  'Bije,  "  I  don't  know  what  to  tell 
you.  I  reckon  having  nothing  but  mining  stock 
is  the  most  helpless  sort  of  poverty  known  to  man, 
because  he  never  knows  just  how  poor  he  is.  I 
guess  this  robber  don't  know  you  have  the  shares." 

Benton  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "If  he 
did  he  would  n't  want  them.  Shall  we  go  and 
help  Silas  in  the  search?  " 

"  He's  comin'  now,"  said  'Bije,  rising.  "  What 
luck,  Si?" 

Silas  thrust  his  head  into  the  room,  his  bushy 
whiskers  in  fine  relief  against  his  night  clothes. 
"  Ever'thin'  shet  up  as  tight  as  Dick's  hatband," 
he  announced,  "  an'  not  a  track,  'Bijey,  not  a 
track!  I'm  goin'  to  blow  out  this  lamp;  it's  too 
wastin'.  Ben  has  been  dreamin',  that's  all  to  it, 


176  STORK'S   NEST 

an'  now  he'd  better  be  sleepin'  fur  to-morrow;  I 
kin  say  that  with  a  clear  conscience." 

"  Yap,"  said  'Bije,  rising.  "  I  reckon  that's 
so.  I'll  get  your  trunk  key,  Ben,  and  we'll  try 
it  again.  As  long  as  robbers  put  our  watches  back 
under  our  pillows  an'  treat  our  money  as  if  afraid 
of  catchin'  germs  from  'em,  it  makes  small  odds 
whether  the  house  is  broken  open  or  not." 

'Bije,  in  his  night  attire,  carried  the  lamp  out 
into  the  yard  and  groped  in  the  rosebush.  As 
Benton  watched  him  from  the  open  window  a 
deeper  distrust  settled  upon  his  mind,  yet  his 
impressions  did  not  assume  tangible  shape. 
"Found!"  'Bije  presently  announced.  He 
brought  the  key  up  to  the  room. 

"  Here  you  are,  Ben,  stow  it  away  safe.  Lock 
up  tight,  now.  Pleasant  sleep;  but  I  can't  wish 
you  no  more  dreams !  " 

Benton  locked  up,  but  with  little  confidence. 
He  examined  the  lock  carefully  to  discover  if  it 
possessed  any  peculiar  fastening  which  allowed  it 
to  be  slipped  without  disturbing  the  key,  but  found 
none.  As  the  lamp  had  been  carried  away  he 
was  in  total  darkness.  When,  at  last,  he  ventured 
back  to  bed  he  was  unable  to  sleep  in  spite  of  Jim's 
warning.  He  imagined  stealthy  footsteps  gliding 
about  the  room  and  a  ghostly  hand  slipping  under 
his  pillow.  Again  in  fancy  he  heard  the  door 
creak  and  detected  the  rustling  of  his  garments  in 
the  hands  of  the  intruder.  So  strong  did  this  im- 


A   STRANGE   BURGLAR          177 

pression  become  that,  at  last,  he  stole  from  the  bed 
on  noiseless  feet  and  crept  to  the  door,  only  to 
find  it  securely  fastened.  As  he  tossed  restlessly, 
impatient  for  the  dawn,  the  determination  to  leave 
Stork's  Nest  grew  deeper.  All  sentiment  and 
romance  which  had  been  created  by  the  thought  of 
Silas  Stork's  being  his  father's  old  war-comrade 
was  dispelled.  There  was  nothing  to  keep  him  in 
this  house  of  misers,  subject  to  mysterious  night 
attacks  from  uncanny  burglars.  Other  farmers 
needed  laborers  and  it  was  not  likely  that  any  of 
them  would  set  forth  so  scanty  a  table.  It  would 
be  necessary,  or  at  least  prudent,  to  remain  until 
he  had  an  opportunity  to  learn  the  neighborhood 
better  that  he  might  make  no  mistake  in  the 
change.  Divided  between  these  thoughts  and  ap- 
prehensions concerning  another  ghostly  visitation, 
it  was  almost  morning  before  he  fell  into  a 
troubled  sleep. 


XI 

JIM    WHITLICKS    "EXPECTS 
THE    WORST" 

BENTON  was  aroused  the  next  morning  by 
a  loud  knocking  upon  his  door.     "  Git  up, 
Ben!"  called  Jim  Whitlicks;  "breakfast's 
ready,  but  I  guess  it  won't  git  no  colder  'n  it  is." 

The  young  man  dressed  in  the  darkness. 
Through  the  open  window  he  caught  the  sleepy 
twinkle  of  the  stars,  as  if  they  found  it  hard  to 
keep  their  eyes  open.  At  first,  it  was  difficult  to 
collect  his  thoughts,  but  the  recollection  of  last 
night's  adventure  set  them  busily  at  work.  How 
had  the  room  door  been  opened  while  the  key  re- 
mained in  the  lock?  He  had  heard  it  creak  upon 
its  hinges,  though  he  had  not  heard  it  closed  after- 
ward. The  picture  of  'Bije  rose  before  his  mind. 
He  found  his  antipathy  to  Emma's  suitor  in- 
creased. Perhaps  the  fact  that  'Bije  was  Emma's 
suitor  made  the  young  man  unjust.  The  ques- 
tion recurred  again  and  again:  Why  had  his 
room  been  entered?  Nothing  had  been  taken 
away;  neither  violence  nor  theft  could  have  been 
contemplated.  If  the  object  had  been  the  trunk 
key,  and  if  the  intruder  had  fancied  his  trunk  con- 

178 


JIM   "EXPECTS    THE   WORST'     179 

tained  riches  beyond  the  value  of  the  watch  and 
money  which  had  been  taken,  then  left  behind, 
how  had  the  burglar  learned  of  that  key?  'Bije 
was  innocent;  for,  if  'Bije  knew  anything  about  the 
attempt  upon  the  trunk,  surely  he  would  have 
been  the  last  to  suggest  that  the  key  was  the  one 
thing  wanted  by  the  thief.  Still,  'Bije  had  known 
about  the  key.  Benton  could  not  dismiss  this  fact 
lightly.  Could  it  be  that  the  giant  Stork  had  an 
accomplice?  For  what  purpose?  All  day  that 
trunk  had  been  left  unlocked  while  Benton  and 
Jim  roamed  over  the  farm  and  rested  at  the 
brook.  It  could  have  been  entered  and  examined 
a  hundred  times.  The  worthless  mining  shares 
could  have  been  taken  at  will.  It  was  from  mere 
habit  that  the  trunk  had  been  locked  after  supper. 
It  was  inevitable  that  Benton  should  recall  his 
meeting  with  Hezzie  Whitlicks.  "  The  ghost  " 
in  the  lonely  wood  and  the  burglar  in  the  dark 
bedroom  had  acted  strangely  alike.  Both  had 
examined  all  his  property  and  had  taken  nothing. 
Could  the  burglar  be  Hezzie,  and  was  "  the 
ghost"  'Bije's  accomplice?  As  Benton  groped 
his  way  through  the  hall  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
him  that  the  ghost  might  room  in  the  Snake 
Room,  subject  to  'Bije's  command.  Perhaps  he 
was  some  criminal  hiding  from  justice  in  this  wild 
part  of  Missouri,  and  'Bije  had  taken  advantage  of 
him  to  further  some  sinister  plans  of  his  own. 
The  suspicion  caused  the  young  man's  blood  to 


i8o  STORK'S   NEST 

surge  in  vague  alarm.  He  sought  to  dismiss  it 
and  to  regard  'Bije  with  some  degree  of  respect, 
or  at  least  of  toleration. 

A  lamp  burned  low  upon  the  table  as  the  five 
inmates  of  Stork's  Nest  seated  themselves.  Ben- 
ton's  "  Good-morning "  had  fallen  dead  upon 
stony  ground.  Mrs.  Stork,  her  hair  wound  up 
for  the  day,  drooped  her  nose  over  her  plate,  gave 
Benton  a  swift  revelation  of  the  whites  of  her 
eyes,  and  looked  down  sourly.  Jim  Whitlicks, 
his  shoulders  drawn  up  into  the  collar  of  his  shirt, 
that  he  might  occupy  less  space, — a  feat  which 
Benton  considered  remarkable, — stared  lugu- 
briously at  the  end  of  his  knife  before  plunging  it 
into  his  mouth.  'Bije,  erect,  stern,  seemed  to 
watch  them  all.  Silas,  alone,  was  cheerful. 

"  I  reckon  yous  thought  Hi  Garrett  got  up 
airly,  Ben,"  he  remarked,  "  but  you'll  find  we  kin 
flax  him  easy  at  that  game.  I  can't  ever  eat 
breakfast  with  a  calm  mind,  seein'  the  coal  ile 
wastin'  before  my  very  eyes  an'  me  helpless — an' 
it  money.  What  joy  that  sunshine's  free !  If  't 
wa'n't,  I  reckon  I'd  jest  keep  it  to  use  for  com- 
p'ny  an'  live  in  midnight  gloom." 

"  How  can  yous  talk  about  coal  oil,"  cried 
Mrs.  Stork,  "  an'  burglars'  tracks*  warm  in  the 
house?  I  do  believe,  Si,  you'd  pull  ever'  hair 
outen  your  head,  'f  yous  thought  they  was  a  five- 
cent  piece  at  the  roots  of  'em." 

"  I  calkerlate  I  air  about  the  savin'est  man  on 


JIM   "EXPECTS    THE   WORST'     181 

Gran'  River,"  replied  Silas  blandly.  "I  found 
out  when  young  that  man's  only  hope  is  to  shet  off 
every  avenoo  of  escape.  It  were  then  I  learned, 
Crishy — an'  Ben — an*  Jim,  too,  for  that  matter 
— that  there's  heaps  more  ways  gittin'  shet  of 
money  than  gittin'  holt  of  it." 

u  I  wish  I'd  knowed  you'd  found  that  out," 
cried  Mrs.  Stork,  darting  her  eyes  toward  'Bije, 
and  finding  him  apparently  lost  in  thought,  "  when 
I  married  yous.  If  I'd  a-knowed  I  was  never 
to  have  carpets,  nor  nothin'  so  much  as  a  bonnet 
to  my  head,  thar  might  'a'  been  a  Mrs.  Stork,  an' 
I  ain't  sayin'  thar  might  n't;  but  she  would  n't 
'a'  been  the  present  incumbent." 

"  Sister  Crishy,"  said  'Bije's  deep  voice,  as  he 
suddenly  looked  up,  "  are  you  complainin'  ? 
Ain't  everythin'  goin'  to  suit  you?  What  do  you 
want,  sister  Crishy?  " 

"  I  reckon  it's  the  burglar,"  said  Mrs.  Stork 
apologetically.  "  I  don't  know  what  come  over 
me.  Excuse  me,  'Bije,  I  hain't  no  more  to  say." 

"Jim,"  said  'Bije,  "pass  sister  Crishy  the 
slaw." 

Silence  ensued.  Benton,  who  had  been  waiting 
to  hear  the  burglar  discussed,  was  resolved  not  to 
begin  the  subject  himself.  The  breakfast  con- 
sisted of  cold  mashed  potatoes,  a  loaf  of  light 
bread,  a  very  large  round  dish  of  slaw,  a  remnant 
of  last  night's  bonny  clabber  cheese,  and  water. 

"  Well,"  Silas  remarked,  not  so  much  to  answer 


1 82  STORK'S    NEST 

his  wife,  as  because  it  was  impossible  for  him  long 
to  refrain  from  talking,  "  it's  meat  an'  drink  to 
some  to  have  carpets  an1  put  their  heads  into  bon- 
nets; but  it's  meat  an'  drink  to  me  an'  'Bije  to 
save.  Ben,  you  hain't  been  helped  to  slaw.  I 
hope  yous  like  slaw?  May  I  ask  yous  to  cast 
your  eye  over  the  board?  Here  air  variety  sech 
as  I  can't  promise  ever'  day.  But  I  jest  says  to 
Crishy,  *  Ben  have  been  skeered  to  death  last 
night,  an'  we'll  make  a  gala  day  of  it  to  put  him 
easy.'  Now,  me,  I  hain't  got  no  faith  in  that 
burglar.  Nobody  heerd  him  but  yous;  nobody 
missed  nothin'  he  took;  so  I  say  that  robber,  if  he 
was  in  the  ministry,  would  n't  be  doin'  no  more 
harm  than  in  his  present  profession." 

14 1  know,"  said  Benton  firmly,  "  that  my  room 
was  entered."  He  gave  'Bije  a  swift  glance,  but 
the  latter  was  watching  Mrs.  Stork. 

"  Yous  feel  heap  easier  to  ascribe  it  all  to  a 
dream,"  said  Silas  kindly. 

"  It  was  no  dream,"  said  Benton.  "  I  heard 
my  door  creak  and  my  clothes  being  examined. 
I  saw  the  lantern's  light  flash  twice." 

"  It  fills  me  with  awe,"  said  'Bije  gruffly,  "  to 
think  of  that  burglar  getting  through  a  locked 
door  and  out  again.  You  say  there  ain't  mys- 
teries, that  the  day  of  'em  is  past.  Then  what  do 
you  call  this?  How  he  got  in,  comes  first;  and 
why  he  wanted  the  trunk  key  comes  a  mighty  close 
second." 


JIM    "EXPECTS    THE    WORST'     183 

"  Can  it  be,"  said  Benton,  watching  the  other 
narrowly,  "  that  he  wanted  it  for  the  same  rea- 
son the  ghost  wanted  it?  I  mean  Hezzie  Whit- 
licks." 

"  Laws-er-mercy !  "  cried  Mrs.  Stork.  "  Have 
yous  met  up  with  Jim's  own  endurin'  pa?  " 

"  I  walked  with  him  in  the  woods,"  Benton 
answered.  "  He  pretended  to  rob  me.  He 
searched  my  valise  but  took  nothing.  Perhaps  he 
wanted  the  trunk  key." 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  this  before?"  cried 
'Bije.  "  That  explains  the  hull  business.  Of 
course,  he  wanted  the  key !  It  must  of  been  him 
last  night,  coming  for  it.  A  character  like  that 
would  n't  stop  at  no  lock  and  key."  He  rose 
from  the  table. 

The  others  hastily  followed  his  example. 
"  Mr.  Stork,"  said  Benton,  watching  him  fixedly, 
"  I  am  sure  a  man  of  your  understanding  does  not 
believe  in  ghosts." 

"  I  care  not  what  you  call  it,"  returned  'Bije; 
"  I  know  Hezekiah  Whitlicks  died  and  was 
buried." 

"  And  I  know,"  spoke  up  Silas,  "  that  I  sat 
under  as  long  a  funeral  sermon  on  that  occasion 
as  ever  I  hope  to  have  at  my  own  obsequies." 

"  And  I  know,"  pursued  'Bije,  "  that  I  have 
saw  Hezekiah  since  that  funeral,  not  once,  but 
many  times.  Whether  he  is  a  ghost  or  not,  I 
leave  to  Jim,  his  own  son;  but  I  know  one  thing; 


1 84  STORK'S   NEST 

he  is  Hezzie !  Don't  speak  of  my  *  understand- 
ing '  when  it  comes  to  what  my  eyes  have  seen ; 
I  am  no  philosopher;  I  am  just  a  plain,  saving 


man." 


"  An'  his  name  is  'Bije  Stork,"  cried  Silas  with 
great  admiration,  "  a  man,  Ben,  as  would  as  soon 
milk  a  cow  as  wollop  a  orphan.  Come,  come,  le's 
git  to  work.  Whar  is  a  hoe  for  Ben,  Jimmy?  " 

"  What  could  a  ghost  want  with  a  trunk  key?  " 
demanded  Benton  persistently. 

"  Nothing  more  natural,"  responded  'Bije 
gravely.  "  Them  there  minin'  stocks  in  your 
trunk  represents  imaginary  gold  in  an  old  un- 
worked  mine.  They  have  no  value  to  mortal 
beings.  Hezzie,  being  but  the  ghost  of  a  man, 
wants  to  go  ha'nt  that  ghost  of  a  Glory  Golden 
mine,  an'  dig  in  the  ghost  of  precious  ore." 

"  I  wish  he  would  go  thar!  "  cried  Jim.  "  I've 
had  more  trouble  than  Solomon  with  all  his  wives, 
havin'  pa's  ghost  throwed  up  to  me,  month's  eend 
to  month's  eend.  I  wish  he  would  go  thar !  " 

"You'd  better  go  for  that  hoe,"  said  Silas, 
smiling,  "  or  'Bijey  will  wollop  yous,  Jimmy!  " 

Jim  set  forth  accordingly,  and  Silas  led  Benton 
away  to  explain  his  work  and  to  provide  him  with 
proper  implements.  As  soon  as  all  three  had  left 
the  dining-room,  'Bije  went  into  the  kitchen, 
whither  Mrs.  Stork  had  retreated. 

"  See  here,  sister  Crishy,"  he  said  roughly, 
striding  toward  her,  "  you're  forgetting  your  job, 


JIM   "EXPECTS    THE   WORST'     185 

seems  to  me.  You  had  a  splendid  chance  to 
expatiate  on  the  ghost  and  you  never  said  a  word." 

"  Don't,  'Bije,"  said  the  other,  shrinking  back 
against  the  wall  and  holding  up  her  hands,  "  I 
never  said  nothin'  one  way  or  the  other;  I  did  n't 
do  no  harm." 

'Bije  threw  his  head  forward  and  thrust  out  his 
upper  lip  in  a  menacing  grimace.  "  Well,  the  next 
time  you'll  say  something,  and  say  it  sharp  and 
clear — do  you  hear  me,  sister  Crishy?  " 

"  Oh,  'Bije,  I'm  plumb  sick  of  the  hull  thing!  " 
she  answered,  with  desperate  courage.  "  My  life 
ain't  worth  nothin'  to  me  now,  an'  I  jest  won't 
carry  it  no  further  with  that  poor  orphan." 

1  You  won't  carry  it  no  further?"  roared  the 
ruffian,  striding  close.  "  You  won't,  won't  you?  " 
and  his  broad  palm  slapped  her  cheeks  till  the 
smart  reports  rang  in  the  room  like  rifle  shots. 
"  Stand  still !  "  he  hissed,  burying  his  fingers  in 
her  tight  coil  of  hair  and  wringing  it  an  extra 
twist. 

"'Bije!  'Bije!"  she  moaned.  "Yes,  yes,  I'll 
say  anythin'  you  want — do  anythin'  you  want — 
dear  'Bije — don't  kill  me!  'Bije — Oh — yous 
tearin'  out  my  hair !  " 

"  But  you  get  so  unreasonable,  sister  Crishy, 
now  you  know  that  yourself.  I  have  to  bring  you 
to  your  senses.  It's  unpleasant  to  you,  an'  it's 
unpleasant  to  me,  but  it  has  to  be  did.  Would 
you  like  to  call  Si?  " 


1 86  STORK'S   NEST 

11  No — I   won't  tell  nobody,    'Blje.      Please— 
please- 

"  Well,  thar,  sister  Crishy,  jest  one  more  slap 
on  your  jaw  for  good  measure.  Hold  up  your 
face  as  Scripture  says:  La!  Crishy,  you're  as  red 
as  a  blushing  school-girl."  The  brutal  hand 
slapped  once  more  the  crimsoned  cheek  which  was 
smarting  painfully  from  his  punishment.  Then 
he  strode  away  whistling. 

In  the  meantime  Jim  and  Benton,  little  dream- 
ing of  the  scene  of  violence  in  the  kitchen,  went  to 
the  field  where  the  weeds  were  to  be  cut.  The  sun 
was  showing  himself  through  narrow  bars  of 
clouds.  He  looked  red  and  had  a  rather  dissipated 
air  as  if  he  had  been  up  too  long  the  evening 
before.  The  grass  was  heavy  with  dew.  Meadow 
larks  wheeled  aloft  with  their  sharp,  sweet  call. 

"  How  cool  and  fresh  everything  is,"  cried  Ben- 
ton,  throwing  off  gloomy  fancies. 

"  It  '11  be  mighty  hot  pretty  soon,"  whined  Jim. 
1  When  I  see  a  August  day  beginnin'  cool,  I  know 
it  don't  mean  nothinV 

In  an  hour  or  so  Silas  rode  to  where  they  were 
at  work.  '  You've  did  purty  well,  Ben,"  he  said, 
critically  examining  the  weeds  that  lay  strewn  under 
the  sun's  increasing  glare,  "  but  yous  kin  do  better. 
We've  got  to  git  these  weeds  cut  to-day,  fur  we 
begin  our  woodin*  bee  to-morrow.  Bear  on  'em 
hard,  brother;  don't  dally!  Brisk  work,  brisk 
work, — that's  what  we  want  of  yous,  an'  shinin' 


JIM   "EXPECTS    THE   WORST'     187 

silver  dollars  is  what  yous  want  of  us,  an'  you'll 
git  'em,  too,  mind  what  I  say!  " 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Benton,  "  but  you 
know  I  am  not  used  to  this  kind  of  work.  It's 
pretty  hard,  but  I  want  hard  work." 

"  We'll  git  hard  work  for  yous,  brother,  we'll 
bring  out  the  muscle  on  them  arms;  we'll  build 
up  your  bone,  an'  you'll  sleep  the  better  at  night. 
Why!  this  is  glorious,  out  under  the  archin' 
heavens,  eatin'  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  communirf 
so  close  to  nature's  bosom  yous  could  n't  git  no 
closer  without  burrowin'  a  hole  in  the  ground. 
It's  a  reg'lar  picnic  for  yous!  Now  I'll  have  you 
an'  Jim  separate.  Git  on  opposite  sides  the  field. 
I've  found  that-  when  man  air  with  man,  they 
jest  nachurly  draw  talk  out  of  each  other  an' 
nothin'  ain't  more  hamperin'  than  talk." 

Benton  flushed  but  Jim  meekly  shouldered  his 
hoe  and  plodded  to  the  far  side  of  the  pasture. 
Stung  by  the  other's  imputation,  Benton  said 
firmly:  "  I  shall  work  in  Jim's  company,  Mr. 
Stork,  and  as  soon  as  you  find  me  shirking,  you 
may  dismiss  me."  He  also  shouldered  his  hoe. 

"All  right,  brother,  all  right,"  said  Silas. 
"No  offense,  pardner!"  At  noon  the  laborers 
partook  of  a  frugal  lunch  which  Silas  brought 
them. 

When  the  horn  announced  supper,  the  young 
man  was  so  stiff  and  weary  he  had  no  appetite. 
His  hands  were  blistered  from  grasping  the  hoe, 


1 88  STORK'S   NEST 

while  his  face  and  neck  were  burned  from  the 
intense  heat  of  the  sun. 

"  Your  nose  is  peelin'  off  splendid,"  cried  Silas 
with  great  good  humor;  "  if  it  keeps  on  that  way, 
they  won't  be  nothin'  left." 

Benton  soon  went  to  his  room  and  sank  upon 
the  bed  exhausted. 

"Reckon  that  ghost  will  come  ag'in?"  asked 
Jim  in  an  awed  voice. 

"  Let  it  come,"  was  the  drowsy  rejoinder. 

For  the  first  time  Benton  experienced  the  utter 
exhaustion  which  comes  from  labor  under  the  burn- 
ing sun.  The  work  of  that  week  and  the  next 
consisted  in  chopping  down  trees  and  in  preparing 
cord  wood  for  hauling  to  Laclede  Station.  The 
table  fare  grew  no  better,  but  the  young  man's 
resolution  to  leave  Stork's  Nest  had  passed  away. 
A  new  interest  bound  him  to  the  spot  which  Emma 
had  promised  to  visit  often.  All  his  hardships 
seemed  worth  the  hope  of  being  in  her  company. 
Moreover,  he  was  intensely  interested  in  watching 
'Bije  Stork  that  he  might  find  some  tangible  objec- 
tion to  the  contemplated  marriage,  and  nowhere 
could  he  exercise  a  surveillance  upon  Emma's 
suitor  except  at  'Bije's  own  retreat.  Gradually  he 
found  himself  able  to  sustain  the  toil  of  the  day 
with  more  constancy  and  ease.  The  week  at 
Hiram's  cottage  had  in  some  measure  prepared 
him  for  the  fatigue,  and  as  the  time  passed  by  he 
found  himself  able  to  do  more  with  less  exhaus- 


JIM   "EXPECTS    THE   WORST'     189 

tion.  In  spite  of  a  new  sorrow  which  was  grow- 
ing upon  him,  he  derived  pleasure  from  the  health 
and  strength  which  the  hard  work  developed.  He 
was  proud  of  the  muscle  beginning  to  show  itself, 
and  eager  to  contend  with  Silas  in  feats  of  endur- 
ance and  agility.  'Bije  seldom  went  with  them; 
sometimes  he  would  suddenly  appear  while  they 
were  at  work,  nod  or  speak  a  few  gruff  words,  and 
vanish.  Sometimes  Silas  would  remark,  after 
such  a  visitation,  always  with  undisguised  ad- 
miration : 

"  An'  his  name  is  'Bije  Stork!  " 

In  the  meantime,  Benton  had  accidentally  left 
his  trunk  unlocked,  the  key  in  the  lock,  yet  nothing 
had  been  disturbed.  On  the  day  following  he  pur- 
posely left  the  trunk  open,  disposing  his  mining 
certificates  in  such  a  manner  that  if  anything  in  the 
tray  was  fingered,  he  could  detect  it.  His  pains 
were  of  no  avail,  except  to  assure  him  that  his 
property  was  safe.  He  knew  not  what  to  conclude 
about  the  mysterious  burglar  and  presently  his 
mind  dismissed  him  as  an  uninteresting  and  un- 
profitable subject  for  speculation.  He  had  another 
theme  of  unending  interest:  why  did  not  Emma 
keep  her  promise  and  visit  Stork's  Nest?  If  she 
ever  came  to  the  house  during  his  absence,  she 
would  learn  that  he  and  Jim  were  "  down  in  the 
timber,"  and  it  would  suit  her  wild  spirit  to  come 
down  to  them  and  be  with  them  in  their  labors, 
if  she  still  cared  to  see  Benton.  Everything 


1 90  STORK'S   NEST 

depended  upon  that.  Did  she  care?  Had  she 
already  ceased  to  regard  him  as  a  means  to  the 
end  of  becoming  a  Person?  Had  'Bije's  ascend- 
ency triumphed?  Emma  had  shown  an  excited 
interest  in  the  piano;  she  was  not  the  sort  of  girl 
to  patiently  wait  for  the  fulfillment  of  her  desires. 
Benton  reflected  with  bitterness  that  perhaps  she 
came  to  the  house  every  day,  going  home  before 
the  choppers  returned  to  supper.  Something  made 
it  impossible  for  him  to  ask  the  question  of  the 
Storks,  but  one  evening  he  found  the  answer  for 
himself. 

A  heavy  rain  near  the  close  of  the  day  had 
driven  them  from  work,  and  the  young  man  found 
himself  at  leisure  before  dark.  He  and  Jim  went 
to  their  room,  where  the  younger  was  almost  at 
once  absorbed  in  his  almanac.  Benton  stared 
from  a  window  with  abstracted  gaze.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  life  in  Blair  City  and  comparing 
it  with  his  present  routine.  His  old  boarding 
house  rose  before  him,  with  its  broad  porches, 
where  the  boarders  sat  in  heavy  chairs  with  semi- 
circular backs,  complaining  of  the  cooking,  dis- 
cussing the  latest  novel,  or  singing  the  last  vagrant 
air  of  some  coon  song.  He  saw  himself  leaving  the 
house  with  his  Blackstone  tucked  under  his  arm, 
on  his  way  to  his  old  friend's,  the  minister's,  where 
there  was  ever  a  quiet  nook  for  his  secluded  study. 
Perhaps  the  minister  who  for  years  had  acted  as 
his  guardian  sat  in  another  corner,  the  breeze 


JIM    "EXPECTS    THE    WORST'     191 

stirring  his  silvered  hair.  Or,  if  it  were  a  week- 
day, he  was  at  the  store,  standing  tall  and  spare 
behind  the  counter,  trying  to  concentrate  his  mind 
upon  dry  goods  and  half  unconscious  of  the  pur- 
chaser's look  and  tone.  He  smelled  again  the  close 
penetrating  odor  of  dyes  and  woolen  stuffs  which 
had  so  long  been  his  daily  atmosphere;  then  his 
chest  swelled  as  with  a  start  from  this  retrospec- 
tion, he  inhaled  the  perfume  of  the  open  country 
as  it  came  freshened  by  the  rain.  How  different 
those  people  in  their  conventional  refinement  from 
these  rude,  uncouth  Grand  River  people!  And 
yet  he  had  nothing  to  complain  of — except  Mrs. 
Stork's  table. 

As  his  eye  fell  upon  Jim's  emaciated  form  the 
smile  which  the  almanac  had  provoked  died  away. 
If  he  sought  another  employer,  he  must  leave  the 
orphan  since  the  latter  was  bound  out  to  Silas.  If 
he  remained,  he  might  find  some  means  of  provid- 
ing Jim  with  more  nourishing  food  than  slaw  and 
cold  potatoes.  This  train  of  thought  was  now 
interrupted. 

The  dry  goods  box  containing  Jim's  bottles  was 
partially  covered  by  a  long  rough  board  upon 
which  Benton  had  disposed  some  of  his  property. 
His  attention  was  fixed  by  these  objects,  which  were 
conspicuously  disarranged.  On  the  top  of  the  pile 
was  his  Bible  standing  upon  edge.  As  it  had 
hitherto  been  too  dark  to  read  upon  coming  to  the 
bedroom,  all  his  books  had  been  neglected,  the 


192  STORK'S   NEST 

Bible  among  the  others.  Surely  'Bije  could  have 
no  more  use  for  a  Bible  than  a  ghost  for  a  trunk 
key.  Had  Mrs.  Silas  Stork  been  seeking  comfort 
in  its  pages?  He  took  up  the  book  idly  and 
fluttered  the  leaves.  Something  fell  softly  to  his 
feet.  He  picked  it  up  eagerly,  a  large  smooth, 
heart-shaped  leaf.  Perhaps  there  was  no  signifi- 
cance in  its  shape ;  but  it  had  come  from  the  catalpa 
tree  and  Emma's  hands  must  have  placed  it  in  the 
Bible.  It  showed  him  that  he  was  not  forgotten 
and  the  next  day  he  worked  with  a  lighter  heart. 
That  night  he  found  a  blue  wild  flower  in  the 
Bible.  He  was  ready  with  his  own  offering,  noth- 
ing, indeed,  but  a  fragile  wood  rose,  its  leaves 
hanging  to  the  stem  as  by  tissue;  yet  he  hoped  it 
might  tell  Emma  something  of  his  friendship  for 
her  and  of  his  loneliness  in  this  second  home.  So, 
each  day,  there  was  something  from  Emma,  and 
each  day  he  gave  something  in  exchange.  Once 
it  was  a  note: 

"  Dear  Emmy: — Perhaps  I  can  come  to  see  you 
Sunday.  Are  you  still  resolved  to  be  a  Person?  " 

The  next  night  he  found  this  brief  and  char- 
acteristic reply:  "  Dear  Ben: — I  am." 

But  alas!  when  Sunday  came,  a  terrific  rain- 
storm of  the  night  before  rendered  the  ford 
dangerous.  Benton  came  down  to  the  table 
gloomy  and  almost  as  despondent  as  Jim,  who 
lagged  at  his  heels.  A  swift  glance  told  them 
that  the  slaw,  which  a  copious  supply  of  vinegar 


JIM    "EXPECTS    THE   WORST'     193 

insured  from  decomposition,  had  been  brought 
forth  after  several  days  of  obscurity.  Half  of  the 
great  round  dish  still  remained.  Jim  looked  at  it 
and  his  teeth  came  together  with  a  snap. 

"  Here's  our  ole  friend,"  said  Silas,  pushing 
the  dish  toward  Benton,  "  an'  thar's  molasses, 
too.  They  is  two  courses  this  mornin'.  I  hain't 
claimin'  it's  a  great  spread,  though.  To  some  it's 
meat  an'  drink  to  be  wasteful,  but  to  me  V  'Bijey, 
it  air  meat  jest  to  save  up,  jest  to  save  up !  " 

"  Yap !  "  cried  Jim  excitedly,  striking  the 
table  with  his  bony  fist,  "  an'  it's  the  only  meat 
we  git." 

"You've  broke  out  ag'in,  hey?"  cried  Silas 
good-naturedly.  "  Now,  Jimmy,  'Bije  '11  have  to 
give  yous  a  wallopin'  for  them  words." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it !  "  cried  the  excited  youth 
wildly.  "  I'm  ready  to  take  it  now;  I  don't  keer. 
Thar's  times  when  I  must  speak  or  b'ust,  and  slaw 
time  is  one  of  'em." 

"Sit  down,  Jim!"  roared  'Bije  furiously. 
:<  I'll  'tend  to  your  case  this  present  week,  if  I  am 
spared." 

"  Do  it  now,  do  it  now !  "  cried  Jim,  waving  his 
skinny  arms.  "  It's  these  cold  victuals  that  has 
put  a  foundation  under  all  my  sicknesses.  I  say 
your  savin'  an'  grindin'  an'  scrouchin'  air  the  only 
meat  we  git.  Do  it  now  I  " 

"  Sit  down!  "  commanded  'Bije,  his  deep  tones 
ringing  till  the  glasses  quivered. 


194  STORK'S    NEST 

Jim  sank  into  his  seat,  saying:  "  Mrs.  Stork, 
pass  them  molasses." 

"  La,  Jim,"  cried  Silas  in  admiration,  "  how 
can  yous  take  to  sweets,  knowin'  what  a  wol- 
lopin's  laid  up  for  your  bones?" 

"  Til  be  ready  for  that  wollopin'  when  it 
comes,"  said  Jim  with  a  certain  tragic  dignity. 

The  meal  was  finished  in  dismal  silence.  The 
rain  continued  to  pour  down  all  that  day,  and  Ben- 
ton  passed  cheerless  hours  in  the  bedroom  with 
Jim. 

"  Jim,  'Bije  does  n't  really  intend  to  beat  you, 
does  he?  "  asked  Benton,  feeling  a  delicacy  in  dis- 
cussing such  a  personal  matter. 

"  Oh,  yap,  he'll  wallop  me,"  said  Jim.  "  Don't 
le's  talk  of  it.  Yous  know  I'm  bound  out  to  Si, 
an'  I'm  going  to  die  before  I  git  outer  bondage. 
They  hain't  nothin'  for  me  but  to  physic  myself — 
an'  be  ready  for  whatever  comes." 

"  I  am  your  friend,  Jim,  and  I  shall  protect 
you,"  said  Benton.  "  Let  'Bije  bluster,  it's  all 
for  effect." 

"  I  have  saw  his  effects  before  to-day,"  said 
Jim,  who  dared  not  reveal  the  many  little  acts  of 
refined  cruelty  which  'Bije  practiced  upon  him. 
"  Anyway,  yous  have  a  friend,  as  I  see  by  your 
letter  Si  brung  yous." 

"  Yes,  from  my  old  guardian.  Do  you  ever  get 
letters?" 

"  Nuck,"  said  Jim,  lying  upon  his  stomach  upon 


JIM   "EXPECTS    THE   WORST"    195 

the  bed  with  an  almanac  spread  before  him. 
"  I'm  thankful  to  say  pa's  ghost  don't  pester  me 
with  correspondence.  It's  enough  to  meet  him 
face  to  face." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  *  the  ghost,'  Jim?  " 

"  Have  I  fingers  an'  toes?  "  demanded  Jim. 

Benton  had  argued  against  Jim's  superstition 
too  often  to  renew  his  attack. 

"  I've  saw  it  all  in  white,"  said  Jim,  "  I've 
saw  it  all  in  red,  I've  saw  it  in  boots,  an'  in  bare 
feet.  It  have  waved  at  me ;  it  have  danced  at  me ; 
it  have  jest  looked  at  me.  Say  no  more  of  it, 
Ben  1  "  Jim  read  his  almanac  with  absorbed 
attention  till  at  last  he  fell  asleep,  his  nose  buried 
in  a  picture  of  somebody's  internal  organism. 

That  evening  'Bije  came  to  the  supper  table, 
his  great  boots  covered  with  dried  mud. 

"  Just  been  over  to  see  old  Hiram  Garret,"  he 
observed.  "  Emmy  sent  her  regards  to  you,  sister 
Crishy." 

Benton's  heart  sank.  He  had  been  so  long  used 
to  confinement  that  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to 
brave  the  ford  in  the  storm,  or  that  Emma  could 
have  expected  him  to  come.  It  was  no  fear  of 
danger,  but  a  lifelong  habit  of  careful  watchful- 
ness over  his  health  which  had  restrained  him. 
Now  he  wished  that  he  had  risked  everything  to 
visit  the  log  cabin.  On  Monday  night  he  looked 
eagerly  in  his  Bible,  but  found  no  leaf  or  flower. 
Doubtless  Emma  had  not  come  to  the  house.  But 


196  STORK'S   NEST 

Tuesday  night  told  the  same  story.  The  next 
day  at  the  breakfast  table  Benton  asked  Mrs. 
Stork,  whom  he  never  found  alone: 

"Was  Emma  here  yesterday,  Mrs.  Stork?" 

The  mistress  of  the  house  showed  the  whites  of 
her  eyes  uneasily  to  'Bije. 

"  Sister  Crishy,"  said  'Bije,  "  why  don't  you 
answer?  I'm  sure  it's  a  civil  question  an'  very 
civilly  put,  likewise." 

"  She  done  her  usual  playin'  on  the  pianner," 
said  Mrs.  Stork  constrainedly. 

"  If  she  comes  to-day,"  said  Benton,  "  I  wish 
you'd  tell  her  that  Jim  and  I  would  like  to  have  a 
visit  from  her  down  in  the  woods;  would  n't  we, 
Jim?" 

"  I  don't  keer,"  said  Jim. 

"Bless  your  heart,"  said  'Bije  gruffly,  "  I've 
tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  take  a  peep  at  her  old 
friends,  but  she  jest  clings  to  the  piano;  don't  seem 
to  care  for  nothing  else,  does  she,  sister  Crishy?  " 

"  Nuck,"  Mrs.  Stork  said  faintly. 

Benton  gave  her  a  suspicious  glance.  ;<  Will 
you  deliver  my  message,  please?"  he  insisted. 

Mrs.  Stork  watched  'Bije.  "  I'll  tell  her,"  she 
said. 

That  night  Benton  found  the  Bible  lying  upon 
his  bed,  showing  that  it  had  been  handled,  but 
there  was  nothing  in  it  for  him  nor  had  his  own 
flower  been  taken.  He  did  not  ask  himself  why 
he  was  grieved  or  why  he  longed  with  increasing 


JIM    "EXPECTS    THE    WORST'     197 

eagerness  to  see  Emma.  It  was  his  first  resolu- 
tion to  leave  the  woods  and  come  to  the  house  the 
next  day  to  meet  Emma  face  to  face.  But,  after 
all,  it  seemed  better  to  wait  till  Sunday,  when  he 
could  be  alone  with  her  and  learn  if  it  was  from 
her  desire  that  they  were  kept  apart. 

The  next  Sunday  dawned  without  a  cloud. 
"  Jim,  I'm  going  to  see  Hiram  this  afternoon/' 
he  said,  his  voice  exultant.  "  And  I  want  you  to 
come  with  me,"  he  added  with  magnanimous 
generosity.  "  It  '11  do  you  good  and  I  know 
Emma  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  'low  'Bije  '11  give  me  my  lickin'  to-day," 
responded*  Jim,  without  enthusiasm.  "  Sunday 
bein'  an  orf  day  it  won't  interfere  with  no  work." 

"  Oh,  Jim  1  "  cried  Benton  impatiently,  "  he 
does  n't  intend  to  do  that.  You  are  always  look- 
ing upon  the  dark  side  of  everything.  Actually, 
you  seem  to  enjoy  doing  so !  " 

"  I  guess  one  side  '11  be  about  as  dark  as  the 
other,  when  'Bije  gets  through,"  said  Jim. 

At  breakfast  Silas  said:  "  Jim,  air  yous  braced 
up?" 

"  Yap,  I  am,"  said  Jim;  "  you  bet  you !  I  don't 
let  nothin'  saprise  me." 

"  Ben,"  said  Mrs.  Stork,  with  a  hasty  attack 
and  retreat  of  the  whites  of  her  shifting  eyes, 
u  you've  learned  by  this  time  not  to  expect  no  big 
Sunday  dinners.  Sundays  hain't  no  differ'nce  to 
us.  My  life  is  jest  a  plain,  unornamented,  undressed 


I98  STORK'S    NEST 

block  of  wood,  my  life  is,  no  planin'  or  sawin*  or 
polishin' " 

'Bije  lifted  his  great  head  and  looked  at  her. 

Silas  announced,  "  Man  ought  not  to  eat  big 
Sunday  dinners,  then  lay  er-round  like  stuffed  boa- 
constricters  all  afternoon  an'  call  that  observin' 
his  Sabbath!  Two  things  keep  man  useful  an' 
happy;  a  full  pocketbook  an'  a  empty  stomick." 

"  As  I'm  to  git  a  lickin',  nohow,"  cried  Jim, 
starting  up,  "  I  might's  well  say  them  words  is 
nothin'.  You  rich  people  jest  slave  from  mornin' 
to  night  wuss  than  if  you-all  was  slaves  down  South 
pickin'  cotton.  Now  come  on,  'Bije,  I'm  ready  I  " 

"Set  down!"  roared  'Bije  savagely.  Jim 
obeyed,  trembling  at  a  white  heat.  "  Sister 
Crishy,"  continued  the  other,  "  did  you  put  up 
that  fool  to  his  idiotic  ravings?  " 

"  She  put  me  up  to  nothin',"  cried  Jim,  "  but 
I  have  my  eyes;  I  have  my  eyes, — I  have  my " 

'  You'll  have  something  else  in  good  time," 
'Bije  interrupted,  "  an'  something  you  won't  need 
them  eyes  to  discover  you  are  gettin'.  Sister 
Crishy,  do  you  feel  dissatisfied  like  Jim?  "  He 
watched  her  narrowly. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Stork  faintly. 

'  Just  name  something"  said  'Bije  politely,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  her  quivering  lids,  "  that  you've 
took  a  fancy  to.  A  hanging-lamp?  A  cabinet? 
Come,  sister  Crishy,  put  a  name  to  it.  Axminister 
carpet?  Why  not  an  Axminister?  " 


JIM    "EXPECTS    THE    WORST'     199 

"  I  don't  want  nothin',  brother  'Bije." 

"  Contented  woman !  "  cried  'Bije,  looking  at 
her  over  his  poised  knife  and  shaking  his  head 
gently  in  approval.  "Contented  woman!"  he 
murmured  again,  and  resumed  his  breakfast. 

After  a  very  early  dinner  Benton  announced 
to  Jim  his  intention  of  visiting  Hiram.  Jim  was 
starting  away  with  him  when  'Bije  was  seen 
approaching  through  the  trees. 

"  Ben,"  he  said  quietly,  "  can  you  spare  Jim 
for  a  while?  I  want  him  at  the  house." 

"  I  know  what's  comin',"  said  Jim  promptly, 
"  an  don't  yous  think  you're  sa'prisin'  me !  " 

"  Nonsense,  Jim !    Nothing  is  coming  but  you." 

"  Mr.  Stork,"  said  Benton,  "  Jim  is  going  with 
me  to  visit  Hiram  Garrett.  Is  it  your  purpose  to 
beat  him,  as  he  fears?  " 

"  Sure  not !  But  I  need  him  all  this  afternoon. 
You  go  and  visit  Uncle  Hi ;  it  '11  do  you  good,  an' 
I'll  bet  he's  wondered  why  you  have  n't  come 
before." 

"  If  I  thought,"  said  Benton  sternly,  u  that  any 
harm  was  intended  Jim " 

"  If  harm  was  intended  Jim,"  remarked  'Bije 
gruffly,  "  he'd  git  it,  which  would  be  his  concern 
and  none  of  yours.  Go  make  your  visit;  spend 
all  evening  if  so  disposed.  Jim,  come  with  me." 

Benton,  surprised  at  the  permission  and  uneasy 
about  Jim,  hesitated,  but  the  thought  of  soon 
standing  in  Emma's  presence  prevailed.  He  set 


200  STORK'S   NEST 

forth  briskly  along  the  road  which  led  to  the  river. 
The  birds  sang  gayly,  the  August  afternoon  pulsed 
with  heat  and  light  and  perfumed  breaths  of  wood 
and  meadow  land.  Only  three  weeks  had  passed 
since  his  coming  to  the  north  Missouri  country, 
but  he  would  doubtless  have  given  Hezzie  Whit- 
licks  a  very  different  reception  from  that  of  the 
gloomy  hollow  at  the  foot  of  the  four  hills.  He 
swung  along  boldly,  his  heart  going  before.  But 
he  was  not  so  bold  when  the  log  cabin  came  in 
view.  Why  had  the  flowers  ceased  to  visit  him? 
Why  had  his  not  been  taken  ?  How  would  Emma 
receive  the  young  man  who  had  feared  to  cross 
the  ford  from  which  'Bije  had  not  shrunk?  These 
doubts  caused  his  feet  to  slow  their  pace  as  he 
approached  the  stile  block. 


XII 
DOES     "EMMY"     CARE? 

ABenton  mounted  the  stile  block  with 
hesitating  feet  he  tried  to  decide  how  he 
would  greet  Emma.  Her  neglect  of  the 
past  week,  her  pains  to  show  that  she  knew  his 
flower  was  placed  in  the  book  for  her,  and  the 
fact  that  she  would  not  take  it  caused  him 
uneasiness  and  bitterness.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
was  eager  to  see  her  after  so  long  an  absence,  and 
— he  was  indebted  to  her  for  his  life.  It  might 
be  best  to  make  a  show  of  wounded  dignity,  to 
answer  her  hearty  greeting  with  constraint,  to 
show  in  look  and  tone  that  he  was  offended.  He 
decided  upon  this  course  as  he  trod  the  ash  path; 
but  the  closer  he  came  to  the  log  cabin  the  more 
rapidly  he  found  his  resentment  vanishing.  The 
house  was  very  quiet  though  the  door  was  partly 
ajar.  Perhaps  the  girl  was  in  the  kitchen.  Surely 
Hiram  was  at  the  barn  for,  had  he  been  within 
reach  of  her  voice,  Emma  would  have  been  con- 
versing with  her  grandfather.  When  Benton 
knocked  on  the  door  every  trace  of  stiffness  had 
vanished  from  his  manner. 

There  was  no  response.     He  went  around  the 

201 


202  STORK'S   NEST 

cabin  and  tried  the  kitchen  door  with  the  same 
result.  Both  must  have  gone  to  visit  old  'Thuze. 
The  young  man's  step  was  now  light  and  eager. 
He  hurried  through  the  orchard  with  a  look  of 
greeting  for  the  chickens,  traversed  the  broom 
corn  patch  at  a  smarter  pace,  and  found  himself 
with  the  pigs  in  the  horse  lot.  If  at  that  moment 
he  could  have  seen  Emma,  a  glad  call  would  have 
burst  from  his  lips;  there  would  have  been  noth- 
ing to  show  her  that  he  had  been  grieving  on  her 
account.  But  Emma  and  Hiram,  'Thuze  and  the 
spring  wagon,  were  all  gone. 

In  the  shock  of  his  disappointment,  all  his  for- 
mer sorrow  returned.  After  two  weeks  he  came 
back  to  find  that  Emma  and  her  grandfather  had 
gone  visiting.  He  had  written  her  the  note  say- 
ing that  he  would  come  last  Sunday;  but  last  Sun- 
day the  crossing  at  the  river  was  dangerous  from 
the  rain  of  the  night  before.  She  ought  to  have 
known  that  he  would  come  the  next  Sunday,  that 
it  was  only  on  Sundays  he  was  at  liberty  to  go 
where  he  pleased.  She  must  have  known  this,  yet, 
knowing,  she  had  left  home.  There  could  be  but 
one  explanation  of  her  conduct;  she  had  ceased 
to  leave  a  flower  in  his  book  and  to  carry  his  away, 
because  she  had  ceased  to  value  his  friendship; 
for  that  reason  she  had  not  stayed  to  welcome  him 
this  afternoon. 

Well,  what  then?  He  had  warned  himself 
that  he  must  not  become  too  interested  in  the  girl, 


DOES   "EMMJ'     CARE?          203 

nor  allow  her  to  care  too  much  for  him.  At  times, 
he  had  found  it  an  effort  to  hold  to  this  prudent 
course;  and  now  she  was  helping  him  and  he  was 
dissatisfied!  Why?  As  he  wandered  disconsolate 
about  the  place  he  asked  himself  this  question, 
with  a  certain  dread  of  the  answer  which  readily 
suggested  itself.  The  truth  began  to  grow  upon 
him  that  his  interest  in  Emma's  future  was  not 
so  disinterested  as  he  would  have  preferred  to 
imagine.  He  shrank  with  repulsion  from  the  con- 
templation of  'Bije's  marriage,  but  not  wholly 
because  he  felt  it  would  make  the  innocent  bride 
miserable.  It  would  make  him  miserable;  as  he 
dwelt  upon  the  idea,  it  seemed  to  him  it  would 
render  him  miserable  always.  If  Emma  married 
'Bije,  what  mattered  regained  health  or  acquired 
strength  ?  What  mattered  all  the  ambitions  which 
had  supported  him  in  unceasing  toil  at  desk  and 
counter  and  hoe? 

As  the  afternoon  stretched  its  shadows  lazily,  he 
had  full  time  and  absolute  solitude  to  examine  his 
heart,  but  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  he  would 
take  complete  advantage  of  it  either.  The  situa- 
tion was  too  strange  and  too  unforeseen  to  com- 
prehend it  fully.  Emma  was  too  ignorant,  too 
illiterate,  too  impossible  from  the  viewpoint  of 
his  social  set,  to  regard  her  as  an  equal.  In  spite 
of  her  daring  spirit,  her  warm,  impulsive  heart 
and  a  certain  homely  wit,  he  felt  her  to  be,  not 
only  in  the  world's  estimation,  but  in  his  own, 


204  STORK'S    NEST 

inferior.  He  considered  himself  too  poor  and  too 
young  to  contemplate  marriage  seriously;  but,  had 
he  been  rich  and  mature,  marriage  with  the  Grand 
River  girl  would  have  been  a  throwing  away  of 
many  of  his  privileges  and  powers.  In  his  present 
condition,  such  a  marriage  would  encumber  him 
with  chains  from  which  it  was  unlikely  that  he 
could  ever  break  free. 

So  sane  was  Benton's  view  and  so  cogent  his 
logic,  that  it  seemed  a  pity  he  was  obliged  to  go 
over  the  same  ground  and  employ  the  same  argu- 
ments so  often.  There  was  something,  not,  indeed, 
an  argument,  but  an  undeniable  influence,  which 
seemed  to  become  inextricably  mingled  and 
imbedded  in  his  premises  and  even  in  his  con- 
clusion; this  was  the  memory  of  two  dark  gray 
eyes  and  of  silken  locks  of  gold.  He  lingered  in 
the  cabin  yard,  hoping  Hiram  and  his  grand- 
daughter might  be  seen  at  any  moment  driving  up 
the  hill.  He  reviewed  his  familiarity  with  the 
place,  visited  the  stumps  of  the  trees  he  had 
chopped  in  Emma's  company,  and  even  went  to 
examine  the  old  man's  traps.  He  entered  the 
front  room  and  stared  wistfully  at  the  ladder  and 
at  Hiram's  single  bed.  But  everything  else 
seemed  suddenly  overshadowed  by  an  object 
neither  large  nor  important.  It  was  Emma's  blue 
sunbonnet  which  had  been  carelessly  tossed  upon 
the  old  man's  counterpane.  He  approached  it 
with  a  tender  look  in  his  brown  eyes  which  made 


DOES   "EMMY"    CARE?         205 

his  countenance  more  than  usually  handsome.  He 
took  it  up  with  reverent  hand,  and  the  perfume  of  j 
her  hair  breathed  upon  his  face.  Reader,  shall 
we  look  out  the  door?  The  sunshine  gilds  the 
distant  wood,  the  catalpa  beans  hang  motionless, 
the  plantains  shoulder  their  spears.  There  is 
nothing  in  this  silent  cabin  to  interest  us ! 

See !  something  moves  up  the  "  big  road," 
moves  so  unwillingly,  so  unsteadily;  perhaps  it  is 
old  'Thuze  at  last.  The  gate  opens.  Wheels 
rattle.  A  blue  sunbonnet  is  thrown  down  hastily 
and  a  young  man  carries  a  guilty  look  to  the  front 
yard. 

"  Hello,  Ben !  "  calls  a  faint,  worn-out  voice. 
Hiram  is  alone.  He  walks  beside  the  spring 
wagon,  holding  a  string  to  keep  it  from  slipping 
from  a  shaft.  "  Now  this  is  pleasant,  son  I  Glad 
to  see  yous  indeed.  I  have  bruck  my  harness 
comin'  up  the  hill.  Ole  'Thuze  see  a  rabbit  jump 
out  the  hedge,  an'  he  squat.  If  I'd  had  Emmy 
it  wouldn't  'a'  been  no  use,  he  done  it  so  un- 


warnin'." 


Benton's  heart  failed  him.  He  tried  to  appear 
cheerful  as  he  offered  to  help  unhitch. 

"  We  won't  unhitch  yit,"  said  Hiram;  "  I  'low 
thar's  somethin'  more  pressin'.  Yous  come  with 
me."  Hiram  tied  'Thuze  to  a  tree  and  walked 
with  more  than  accustomed  speed  to  the  kitchen 
door.  "  Come  right  in  here  an'  set  down  to  the 
table.  Don't  make  no  delay.  As  good  an  ole 


206  STORK'S    NEST 

ham  as  ever  were  cured.  Here's  a  healthy  slab; 
fall  to!  How  d'ye  like  it?" 

"  I  never  tasted  such  a  ham !  "  cried  Benton. 

"  Take  another  slab.  This  corn  pone  air  cold, 
but  it's  only  needed  to  bolster  up  your  meat. 
Kinder  sweet,  though,  hain't  it?  " 

"  It  is  delightful,  Mr.  Garrett." 

"  Made  by  Emmy's  own  hands !  "  cried  Hiram, 
beaming.  4  Take  some  more !  Ready  for  more 
ham?  Like  for  me  to  go  out  an'  knock  over  a 
chickun?  Have  it  fried  in  no  time,  or  b'iled  if 
yous  think  your  stomick  too  tender  for  fried 
meats." 

Benton  protested  that  he  could  eat  all  the  meat 
to  which  he  was  helped.  "  How  is — how  is — " 
said  Benton,  "  your  health,  Mr.  Garrett?  " 

"  Son,  I'm  runnin'  down-hill,"  said  the  other 
with  sudden  seriousness.  "  I'm  not  long  now  for 
the  open.  I've  got  to  leave  Emmy  before  one 
of  these  days.  I'm  wearin'  out  all  over." 

"  You  must  n't !  "  cried  Benton  earnestly. 
"  She  can't  spare  you  just  now." 

"  I  hain't  fit  to  take  care  of  her,"  said  Hiram, 
shaking  his  white  locks. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are !  "  cried  the  young  man. 
"  You  are  the  only  one  who  is  fit.  Don't  trust  her 
in  the  care  of  those  people,  dear  Mr.  Garrett." 

"  She'll  manage  'em  all,"  said  Hiram.  "  'Bije 
'11  do  jest  what  she  says  even  if  it's  to  spend 
money." 


DOES    "EMMY'     CARE?          207 

"  None  of  them  can  be  what  you  are  to  her," 
Benton  exclaimed,  deeply  distressed. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  dyin'  on  purpose,"  Hiram 
returned,  not  without  a  faint  show  of  spirit.  "  I 
am  dyin'  because  of  complaints  which  has  been 
nursed  an'  treated  with  ever'  respect,  but  which 
jest  nachurly  gits  more  bossy  the  longer  they  air 
knuckled  to.  Take  some  more  ham.  Grease  your 
in'ards,  son.  I  wonder  if  they  would  n't  be  some 
ways  to  carry  home  the  ham  bone  an'  keep  it  quiet 
in  your  room?  But  yous  seem  pow'ful  strong. 
Them  arms  is  gittin'  tol'able  like.  I've  heerd  a 
fat  man  gits  fat  on  whatever  he  eats  an'  I  reckon 
if  you're  goin'  to  be  strong,  Storkses  can't  hender !  " 

"  I  get  enough  exercise,"  said  Benton  a  little 
ruefully.  "  I  live  in  the  open  air,  too.  When  do 
you  look  for  Emmy,  Mr.  Garrett?  " 

*  'S  no  tellin',  my  son.  They  make  a  heap  of 
that  gal.  I  calkerlate  'Bije  '11  drive  her  back  about 
sunset.  It's  an  hour  till  sun,  now." 

"  'Bije !  "  exclaimed  Benton.  "  But  I  left  'Bije 
at  home." 

"  Yous  left  Emmy  thar  too,"  said  Hiram 
dryly.  "  She  taken  late  dinner  thar." 

"  I  think  I  might  have  known  it,"  said  the  other 
with  a  quick  flush  of  resentment.  "  Why  was  I 
given  an  early  dinner  and  sent  away,  if  it  was  n't 
to  be  kept  from  her?  " 

"  No  other  reason  that  I  kin  think  of,"  said 
Hiram. 


208  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Do  you  mean  she  did  n't  want  to  see  me?  " 
asked  Benton,  his  color  deepening. 

"  I  mean  'Bije  did  n't  want  yous  to.  When  a 
man's  in  love  an'  kin  have  his  way,  love  air  like 
a  broad  river  with  a  island  in  the  middle;  that's 
how  I  place  it.  He  wants  to  go  all  around  that 
island  an'  no  boatin'  allowed." 

"  If  Emma  had  wanted  to  see  me,"  said  Ben- 
ton,  "  she  would  have  asked  for  me." 

"  Stands  to  reason,"  said  the  old  man.  There 
was  a  pause ;  then  he  added :  "  Has  Si  paid  yous 
in  full?" 

*  Yes,"  said  the  young  man  gloomily. 

"  I  knowed  they  was  a  hones'  f ambly !  "  cried 
the  elder  exultantly.  "  I'm  glad  yous  told  me. 
I'm  glad  I  ast.  Can't  eat  no  more?  Shall  we  go 
an'  visit  ole  'Thuze  now?  " 

Benton  helped  to  put  the  wagon  away  and  to 
feed  the  horse.  He  tried  to  shake  off  the  despond- 
ency which  had  fallen  upon  him  and  to  show  an 
interest  in  the  price  of  furs,  but  he  felt  that  his 
visit  had  been  a  dismal  failure. 

"  Hain't  goin'  yit,  son?  "  cried  Hiram  as  Ben- 
ton  held  out  his  hand.  "  Why  Emmy  '11  be  here 
now  in  no  time  1  "  But  Benton  was  ready  to  go. 
"  Well,  yous  can't  fail  to  meet  her,"  the  old  man 
said,  grasping  his  hand.  "  I'm  mighty  glad  yous 
come.  Do  it  ag'in,  son ;  do  it  ag'in !  I  wish  you'd 
brung  that  Bible  with  yous.  Won't  yous  brung  it 
next  time?  Say!  Le'  me  tell  yous — -jest  thought 


DOES   "EMMY"    CARE?         209 

of  it:  two  weeks  from  now — an'  it  comes  on  Sun- 
day— air  Emmy's  seventeenth  birthday.  She's 
been  mighty  chesty  about  it  lately.  Come  an'  take 
dinner  with  us.  Now,  yous  do  it!  Now  I  mean 
it  hearty;  this  ain't  etiquette." 

"  Do  you  think,"  Benton  inquired  mournfully, 
"that  Emmy  will  want  me?" 

"  It  don't  make  no  differnce  whether  she  does  or 
not,"  Hiram  declared.  "  I  won't  tell  her  till 
you're  here,  so  she  can't  do  nothin'  an',  bein'  her 
birthday,  she'll  nachurly  be  open  disposed,  nohow. 
I  want  to  hear  more  Bible;  that's  a  fact.  I'm 
goin'  before  long  whar  they  don't  have  no  other 
readin'  book,  I  do  expect !  " 

"  I'll  come,"  said  Benton  suddenly.  He  had 
not  gone  far  in  the  wood  when  he  heard  approach- 
ing wheels,  and  from  an  elevation  caught  sight  of 
'Bije  and  Emma  in  a  buggy.  Emma  saw  him,  but 
'Bije,  whose  eyes  were  upon  her  face,  was  appar- 
ently unaware  of  his  presence.  They  were  far 
away  and  the  girl's  beauty  was  rather  suggested 
by  memory  than  confirmed  by  sight.  His  feeling 
of  wounded  pride  and  resentment  asserted  itself. 
He  turned  aside  and  was  swallowed  up  in  a  thicket 
of  hazel  bushes. 


XIII 

AT    THE    MERCY    OF    'BIJE 

BENTON  did  not  remember  Jim  Whitlicks 
till  he  came  in  sight  of  the  brook  where 
they  had  separated.  He  went  to  the  house, 
dreading  to  find  that  the  boy  had  been  punished; 
he  felt  that,  if  such  were  the  case,  there  must  be 
an  open  rupture  with  'Bije. 

"  Nuck,"  said  Jim,  in  the  privacy  of  their  bed- 
room, "  I  hain't  been  wolloped  yit.  I'll  be  next 
Sunday,  I  reckon." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Benton,  whom  disappoint- 
ment over  Emma's  behavior  had  rendered  irri- 
table. "  Nobody's  going  to  lay  their  finger  on 
you  while  I'm  here.  I  believe  it's  your  harping 
on  the  dark  side  of  things  that  has  given  me  such 
a  dark  impression  of  these  people — I  mean  of 
'Bije.  I  don't  know  why  I'm  always  thinking  of 
him  as  of  a  criminal,  if  it  Is  n't  from  your  manner, 
Jim." 

"  Yap,"  whined  Jim,  "  I  reckon  if  he  was  littler 
than  yous  you'd  lick  him,  though !  I  want  to  tell 
yous:  when  'Bije  called  me  away  from  yous  at 
the  brook,  what  do  yous  reckon  he  wanted?  " 

210 


AT    THE   MERCY   OF   'BIJE       211 

"  What?  "  demanded  Benton  sharply. 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  Jim,  "  or  I  would  n't 
be  askin'  your  opinion." 

"  Jim,"  cried  Benton  impatiently,  "  how  should 
I  know  what  happened?  " 

"  Dun'no,"  said  Jim.  He  sat  upon  the  bed  to 
remove  one  shoe,  for  it  was  fast  growing  dark. 

Benton  walked  to  the  dry  goods  box,  which  com- 
bined the  characteristics  of  a  book-stall  and  drug- 
store, and  sadly  opened  his  Bible;  he  drew  forth 
one  of  the  faded  blue  flowers  which  Emma  had 
hidden  there,  as  fresh  and  pure  as  herself.  How 
little  he  had  dreamed,  when  he  first  discovered  it, 
that  in  less  than  two  weeks  her  interest  in  him 
would  fade  more  completely  than  the  delicate 
petals ! 

"  I  hope,"  said  Jim,  tugging  at  the  shoe,  "  that 
they  will  be  some  flowers  cast  on  to  my  grave,  but 
if  they  hain't  one,  I  won't  be  sa'prised." 

Benton,  staring  at  the  flower,  said  perversely: 
"  It  is  your  fault,  Jim,  that  'Bije  and  I  are  not 
better  friends.  None  of  the  neighbors  say  a  word 
against  him." 

"  They  dare  n't !  "  interposed  Jim. 

"  Nonsense !     Is  n't  this  a  free  country?  " 

"  The  country  may  be  free,  but  I  hain't,"  said 
Jim.  "  I  want  t'  tell  yous.  Come  here."  Jim 
hobbled  on  his  one  shoe  to  a  distant  window. 
"This  window's  locked,  hain't  it?"  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  said  Benton. 


212  STORK'S   NEST 

"  But  it  hain't,  is  it?  "  cried  Jim,  pushing  it  up. 
"  Don't  make  no  noise  when  it  rises,  nuther,  do 
it?  Smell  of  this  groove.  Hain't  it  been  'iled? 
Look  at  that  lock.  Hain't  it  a  make-believe? 
This  is  whar  your  burglar  come  in  that  night. 
When  he  got  in,  he  goes  to  the  door  an'  unlocks  it 
an'  creaks  it  a  bit  so  as  to  make  yous  think,  if 
awake,  that  he  come  in  thar.  Then,  when  he  gits 
through  riflin',  he  locks  the  door  ag'in,  sneaks  out 
this  window,  pulls  it  down,  an'  the  lock  makes  it 
look  secure.  Poke  your  head  out  o'  here.  See 
that  pipe  an'  that  gutter  an'  that  shutter?  I  could 
do  it  myself!  " 

"  If  you  knew  all  this " 

"  Just  thunk  of  it  this  evenin'.  'Bije  made  me 
stay  in  here  after  yous  went,  an1  I  jest  got  to 
devisin'  about  my  afflictions  an',  when  I  got  tired 
of  'em,  I  nachurly  thunk  of  pa's  ghost.  I  kep' 
devisin'  an'  devisin'  till  I  worked  this  all  out." 

4  Well,"  said  Benton,  turning  away  with  a 
shrug,  "  I've  long  since  given  up  trying  to  account 
for  that  visitation  except  upon  the  ground  of  some 
wandering  madman.  I've  left  this  room  open 
and  my  trunk  unlocked  every  day  and  night  since, 
and  nothing  is  missing  yet.  As  you  seem  to  be 
developing  the  talents  of  a  detective,  Jim,  suppose 
you  investigate  the  Snake  Room." 

uS-s-sh!"  said  Jim.  "Yous  wait  a  minute." 
He  took  off  his  other  shoe,  stole  to  each  window 
and  looked  out,  then  examined  the  door  and 


AT    THE   MERCY   OF   'BIJE       213 

assured  himself  that  no  one  was  in  the  hall. 
"  Come  here,"  he  whispered,  plucking  Benton's 
arm  and  drawing  him  toward  the  remotest  corner 
of  the  long  apartment.  "  Benton  Cabot,  I  was 
passin'  the  Snake  Room  this  very  afternoon.  I 
did  n't  put  in  all  my  time  devisin'.  The  door  was 
a  little  open  an'  thar  was  a  lamp  burnin'  within; 
they  hain't  no  windows  to  it  or,  if  they  is,  they're 
nailed  up.  I  see  a  sight  on  the  floor  that  would 
'a'  jest  iced  my  blood  if  I  was  n't  always  lookin' 
for  somethin'  dreadful.  Bein'  always  ready  I  jest 
looked  at  it  an'  thinks,  *  Thar  yous  air;  not  as 
bad  as  I  expected.'  But  it  was  bad  enough,  Ben. 
What  do  you's  think  it  was?  " 

"The  ghost?"  asked  Benton  sarcastically. 

"  A  coffin,"  said  Jim;  "  a  long  black  coffin  with 
a  spade  stickin'  out  o'  it !  "  Jim's  long  sallow  face 
looked  preternaturally  lugubrious  as  he  stared  at 
the  other  to  watch  how  this  information  would  be 
received. 

"  Let's  go  to  bed,"  said  Benton  quietly. 

"  Ben,"  said  Jim,  considerably  crestfallen,  "  do 
yous  reckon  'Bije  deals  in  dead  men's  bodies?  " 

"  Jim  Whitlicks !  "  cried  Benton  with  pretended 
severity, ,  "  how  can  you  think  of  such  horrible 
things?" 

"  I  kin  think  of  anythin'  !  "  Jim  declared. 

'  There's  no  reason  why  a  person  should  n't 
keep  a  coffin  in  his  bedroom,"  said  Benton,  still 
with  a  show  of  severity,  "  or  spades.  It's  a  matter 


2i4  STORK'S   NEST 

of  taste.  I  wonder  you  have  n't  one  yourself,  Jim. 
Come,  I'm  sleepy." 

But  Benton  still  lay  awake  when  Jim  was  snor- 
ing mournfully.  He  was  now  convinced  that  "  the 
ghost  "  inhabited  the  Snake  Room.  The  coffin 
se.en  by  Jim  must  be  the  one  Hiram  Garrett  had 
seen  and  to  which  Hezzie  Whitlicks  had  referred. 
The  impostor  kept  it  in  this  dark  apartment  until 
ready  to  make  a  visible  manifestation.  Then  it 
was  carried  to  some  lonely  spot  in  the  wood,  a 
spectator  was  tolled  near,  and  "  the  ghost  "  crept 
into  its  dismal  protection.  What  object  could 
'Bije  have  in  abetting  the  impostor?  As  remem- 
bered by  the  young  man,  the  ghost  was  a  large, 
well  developed  man,  almost  as  tall  as  'Bije  him- 
self. It  seemed  impossible  that  he  could  inhabit 
that  room  many  weeks  without  discovery.  Ben- 
ton  was  resolved  to  fathom  this  mystery,  on 
Emma's  account.  If  'Bije  was  a  criminal  she 
should  know  it.  Whatever  he  was,  the  reason  for 
that  coffin's  presence  and  that  room's  mystery 
must  be  laid  bare  before  he  left  the  Grand  River 
country.  Perhaps  he  had  been  kept  away  from 
the  house  as  much  on  account  of  that  room's  occu- 
pant as  on  account  of  Emma.  Henceforth  he 
would  not  be  found  so  docile  in  obeying  unreason- 
able orders.  With  these  reflections,  he  fell  asleep. 

The  work  of  the  next  week  consisted  in  load- 
ing and  hauling  cord  wood  to  Laclede  Station. 
Such  occupation  rendered  Benton's  resolutions 


AT    THE    MERCY   OF   'BIJE       215 

futile.  Silas  always  carried  his  lunch  with  him,  but 
Benton  treated  himself  and  Jim  to  hot  dinners  at 
the  store.  Hicky  Price,  the  owner  of  the  establish- 
ment, happened  in  upon  them  one  day;  he  had 
come  from  his  farm  to  take  an  inventory  of  his 
stock. 

"  Good  gracious  alive !  "  shouted  Hicky  from 
the  doorway,  "if  it  hain't  Ben!  How  air  yous, 
Ben?  Well,  if  it  hain't  Jim !  How  air  yous,  Jim? 
Who  on  airth  would  'a'  thought  to  see  yous  here 
with  your  legs  cocked,  an'  hot  victuals  rollin'  an' 
tumblin'  down  your  throats?  If  I'd  been  told  of 
it,  I'd  'a'  had  to  have  said:  *  I'm  from  Mizzoury 
— show  me !  '  An'  here  you-all  set !  How  air 
yous,  anyway?"  By  this  time  he  had  wrung 
their  hands  heartily.  "  Whar's  Emmy?  'T  'ome? 
Whar's  the  old  bacteria?  Settin'  on  some  gate 
post,  yit,  skeered  he'll  have  to  pay?  How  come 
you-all  with  spendin'  money,  livin'  with  sich  a 
parasite?  " 

"  He  pays  us  promptly,"  said  Benton. 

"  Oh,  he  do !  "  muttered  Hicky,  shaking  his 
head.  ;<  Well,  no  man  is  consistent,  back'ards  or 
for'ads!  Whar's  Emmy,  boys?" 

"  Don't  ask  us,"  said  Jim  mournfully.  "  What 
with  me  bein'  pestered  with  germs  an'  Benton 
with  burglars,  we  got  no  time  for  canticonin'." 

"Burglars!"  echoed  Hicky;  and  Benton  was 
obliged  to  tell  the  story  and  to  re-tell  its  salient 
points  many  times.  Benton,  who  presently  wearied 


216  STORK'S    NEST 

of  such  inquiries  as  "Which  window  was  it?" 
"  How  big  is  it?  "  "  How  high  is  it?  "  etc.,  sought 
to  divert  the  conversation  into  other  channels,  but 
Hicky  headed  him  off  with :  "  Stick  to  your  tale, 
Ben !  Well,  if  it  hain't  Jim !  How  air  yous,  Jim?  " 
Finally  he  asked,  stretching  out  his  neck  till  his 
head  was  close  to  Benton's :  "  Whar  air  them 
minin'  certificates,  now?  " 

"  In  my  trunk  where  they  have  always  been." 

"  Think  you'll  find  'em  thar  when  yous  git 
home?" 

"  I  have  hitherto,"  returned  Benton,  smiling. 

"  An'  yit  yous  air  from  Mizzoury!  "  exclaimed 
Hicky,  rising  suddenly.  He  started  toward  the 
door,  apparently  with  the  intention  of  leaving  the 
place,  but  suddenly  he  turned  and  approached  the 
table  at  which  Benton  and  Jim  were  dining. 
"Say!  you're  right  in  thinkin'  they're  safe  while 
you're  from  home.  They  won't  be  took  till  yous 
air  right  thar  to  sw'ar  to  it.  See?  " 

"  No,"  said  Benton. 

Hicky  started  away  again  and  this  time  reached 
the  door.  Then  he  came  back  hastily.  "  Don't 
yous  see,  if  they  was  took  now,  you'd  suspect  ole 
Parasite?  Who  would  n't?  Ole  Parasite  knows 
that.  But  when  you're  right  thar  in  the  room, 
some  night  or  other,  the  ghost  will  come  an'  carry 
'em  away  an'  ole  Parasite  will  be  streakin'  aroun' 
tryin'  to  ketch  him.  See?  " 

"  You  think,"  Benton  smiled,  "  that  Silas  Stork 


AT    THE    MERCY    OF    'BIJE       217 

wants  my  mining  certificates?  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  the  Golden  Glory  mines?  " 

"  Nuck.  But  the  way  they  has  drawed  atten- 
tention  makes  me  think  they're  worth  a  sight. 
They're  worth  so  much  that  a  man's  willin'  to 
break  into  your  room  at  night  to  git  'em !  " 

"  The  trunk  stays  open  all  the  time,"  said  Ben- 
ton,  trying  to  argue  away  the  suspicion  which  was 
hazily  forming  in  his  mind.  "  Why  does  n't  the 
thief  come  while  I  am  down  in  the  timber?" 

Hicky  left  the  room  in  disgust  at  this  obtuse- 
ness,  but  was  back  almost  immediately.  "  Be- 
cause," he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  tell  yous  it 
would  bring  suspicion  on  ole  Parasite." 

"  Ben,"  said  Jim,  "  do  have  some  sense!  " 

"That's  it,  Jim,  that's  it!  "  cried  Hicky  excit- 
edly; "  yous  have  said  the  right  word.  I  did  n't 
know  yous  had  it,  yourself,  Jim.  You're  right!  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Benton  thought- 
fully. "  I'll  hide  the  certificates  and  write  to  the 
mining  company,  if  it  is  still  in  existence,  and 
find  out  if  there  is  anything  in  it." 

Hicky  Price  seized  Benton's  hand  as  he 
repeated:  "Jim,  yous  said  the  right  word.  I'll 
git  yous  pen  an'  ink  this  minute,  Ben." 

This  conversation  took  place  on  Saturday,  the 
last  day  of  the  wood  hauling.  Only  one  place 
occurred  to  Benton  where  the  certificates  would 
be  safe,  Hiram  Garrett's  cabin.  As  he  was  invited 
to  take  dinner  there  Sunday  week,  he  decided  in 


218  STORK'S    NEST 

the  meantime  never  to  sleep  without  having  the 
papers  about  his  person.  When  he  was  told  the 
next  day  that  he  and  Jim  would  be  expected  to 
take  "  thar  usual  Sunday  frolic  down  in  the  pas- 
tures," he  leaped  to  the  conclusion  that  Emma  was 
again  invited  to  spend  the  day  with  the  Storks  and 
that  the  ghost  might  air  himself  before  her  com- 
ing. He  resolved  to  go  to  the  house  in  the  after- 
noon, in  spite  of  Silas's  warning,  and  speak  to 
Emma  and  learn  beyond  mistake  whether  or  not 
she  desired  his  absence.  About  two  o'clock 
'Bije  appeared  before  them  as  on  the  previous 
Sunday. 

"  Jim,  can  you  come  to  the  house  a  minute?  " 
he  inquired,  his  deep  voice  sounding  not  unkindly. 

"  I  kin  come,"  said  Jim,  rising,  "  or  yous 
would  n't  be  askin'.  An'  I  kin  be  walloped, 
too." 

'Bije  winked  at  Benton.  "  Did  you  ever  know 
such  a  case?  "  he  inquired  almost  genially.  "  Come 
on,  then.  Ben,  you  can  spare  him  an  hour  or  so,  I 
reckon.  We  won't  look  for  you,  Ben.  Enjoy 
yourself,  being  a  gentleman !  " 

Benton  resented  being  winked  at  by  'Bije;  he 
resented  the  tone  of  voice  which  bordered  upon 
bantering,  but  he  was  too  impatient  of  Jim's  gloomy 
anticipations  to  make  any  objection.  Jim  and 
'Bije  accordingly  departed,  Jim  muttering  that 
"  nobody  need  n't  think  he  was  took  by  sa'prise." 
They  had  not  been  gone  long  when  the  young  man 


AT    THE   MERCY   OF    'BIJE       219 

prepared  to  follow.  It  was  not  without  tingling 
nerves  that  he  entered  into  open  rebellion  against 
the  Storks.  Before  he  reached  the  back  lot  he 
could  see  a  cart  standing  near  the  gate  to  which  a 
dispirited,  bony  horse  was  harnessed.  The  horse 
stood  with  head  low  between  its  forelegs,  its  ears 
pointing  at  the  ground.  It  heard  Benton's 
approach,  but  gave  no  other  sign  of  recognition 
than  by  opening  its  mouth  to  a  frightful  extent 
and  working  the  lower  jaw  to  the  right  and  the 
upper  jaw  to  the  left  in  a  hideous  yawn.  It  was 
Methuselah.  Emma,  then,  was  there  and  no 
doubt  Hiram  had  brought  her.  The  sight  of  the 
cart  changed  Benton's  purpose.  Why  should  he 
force  himself  upon  the  girl's  attention  when  she 
expressed  no  desire  to  see  him?  His  wounded 
pride  rebelled  and  he  turned  half-angrily  away. 
As  he  approached  the  barn  aimlessly  he  decided 
not  to  go  to  the  log  cabin  on  Emma's  birthday  nor 
to  seek  her  in  any  way. 

"  She  need  never  see  me  again,"  he  muttered, 
"  if  that  is  her  wish." 

He  was  near  the  rear  of  the  barn  when  he 
fancied  he  heard  mysterious  sounds  from  within; 
every  sound  on  the  Stork  farm  naturally  appealed 
to  him  as  mysterious.  The  ghost  might  be  taking 
his  air  after  long  confinement  in  the  Snake  Room. 
Benton  in  his  present  mood  was  careless  of  danger. 
A  door  stood  open  and  he  entered  a  floorless 
inclosure.  On  his  right  was  the  corn  bin,  a  tall 


220  STORK'S   NEST 

square  box  with  no  opening  but  the  little  wooden 
door,  now  closed. 

"  If  you  yell,"  came  'Bije's  deep  hoarse  voice, 
"  I'll  give  you  one  to-morrow  to  remember.  You 
see,  my  lad,  you  was  n't  bound  out  to  Si  to  be 
always  complaining,  stirring  up  sister  Crishy  and 
dropping  hints  to  Benton  and  visitors.  You  was 
bound  out  to  do  good  hard  work  an'  to  be  con- 
tented with  us.  That  there  being  contented  is  just 
as  much  a  piece  of  your  job  as  plowing  corn  is. 
D'  ye  see,  Jamie,  my  boy?  " 

Benton  had  stood  thus  long  rooted  to  the  spot, 
his  form  trembling  with  suppressed  anger  and 
amazement.  As  'Bije's  voice  ceased  its  deep 
rumble  there  came  the  sound  of  a  blow  and  a  faint 
moan.  With  every  nerve  tingling  Benton  flung 
open  the  door,  which  was  about  three  feet  from 
the  floor,  and  glared  within.  Jim  Whitlicks  stood 
upon  the  corn  in  the  middle  of  the  inclosure,  naked 
to  the  waist.  His  poor  bony  arms  were  extended 
straight  upward,  the  wrists  bound  to  a  beam  over- 
head. 'Bije  clutched  a  leather  strap  whose  cruel 
descent  Benton  had  heard.  A  dull  red  stripe 
appeared  across  the  thin,  unhealthy  body  of  the 
orphan. 

4  You  villain !  "  cried  Benton,  bounding  through 
the  narrow  opening  and  sending  the  corn  in  all 
directions  from  under  his  impetuous  feet.  'Bije, 
taken  by  surprise,  had  not  time  to  ward  off  the 
blow  which  struck  him  on  his  cruel  mouth.  His 


AT    THE   MERCY   OF   'BIJE       221 

lower  lip  was  cut  against  his  teeth  and  the  sudden 
show  of  blood  added  a  touch  of  ferocity  to  his 
white  anger. 

Dropping  the  strap,  'Bije  caught  both  of  the 
other's  arms  and  held  them  in  a  vise  of  iron.  Ben- 
ton,  still  mad  from  outraged  indignation,  sought 
to  throw  himself  away  from  the  inflexible  hands. 
There  was  a  tense  silence,  then  the  giant  slowly 
bent  down  Benton's  arms,  compelling  him  to  sink 
upon  the  corn. 

"  This  room  is  rather  small,"  said  'Bije  with 
perfect  composure,  "  and  I  will  put  you  where  you 
will  not  be  in  the  way;  but  since  you  want  to 
see  the  sights,  I'll  not  throw  you  out  of  the 
room." 

A  rope  lay  close  at  hand.  Pressing  his  knee 
upon  Benton's  chest,  'Bije  without  much  difficulty 
succeeded  in  pinioning  the  young  man's  arms  in 
such  a  way  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  move 
them.  Mortification  at  his  own  helplessness 
rendered  Benton  dumb,  but  his  eyes  blazed  with  a 
dangerous  light  as  'Bije  dragged  him  roughly  to  a 
corner  and  still  further  secured  him  by  tying  his 
legs  to  an  upright  beam  in  the  wall.  Never  before 
had  the  young  man  so  keenly  realized  the  advan- 
tage of  physical  prowess. 

4  You  are  stronger  than  I  am,"  he  said,  his  voice 
vibrating  with  passion,  "  stronger  in  mere  brute 
force.  And  yet  one  day  I  shall  prove  your  master, 
'Bije.  Beware  what  you  do." 


222  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Now,  Jim,  we  will  proceed,"  remarked  'Bije, 
snatching  up  the  heavy  strap.  '  You'll  pardon 
me,  my  lad,  for  seeming  to  treat  you  with  neglect 
so  long.  Of  course,  visitors  has  their  rights  an' 
must  be  'tended  to.  We'll  go  on  with  the  wollop- 
ing  if  you  don't  mind.  As  I  was  sayin',  you're 
hired  to  Si  to  do  hard  work  and  to  be  contented, 
and  being  contented  is  just  as  much  a  part  of  your 
job  as  plowing  corn.  I'll  try  to  learn  you  con- 
tentment." 

The  powerful  arm  was  thrown  high  in  air  and 
the  strap  came  down  with  cruel  force  upon  the 
writhing  back.  Benton  strained  at  his  bonds, 
hissing  between  clenched  teeth,  "  I'll  testify  to 
this  brutal  treatment  before  the  court !  " 

"  And  your  carping  makes  sister  Crishy  dis- 
satisfied," said  'Bije,  "  and  it  keeps  you  miserable. 
Are  you  getting  more  contented,  Jim  ?  Wait,  you 
need  n't  answer  yet."  The  strap  descended  again 
and  again  and  at  each  sickening  thud  Benton  felt, 
at  it  were,  the  sting  of  the  blow  upon  his  own 
heart. 

"  'Bije,  'Bije,"  moaned  Jim  at  last,  "  I  can't  bear 
it,  I  can't,  indeed,  stand  no  more !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  can !  "  said  'Bije,  stretching  his 
mouth  in  silent  laughter  as  he  paused  in  his  labor. 
"  You  can  stand  fifty  lashes.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber we  counted  once  to  see  just  how  much  you 
could  stand  under?  It  was  forty-eight,  an'  I'm 
confident  we  can  make  it  fifty  this  time.  Be  sure 


AT    THE    MERCY   OF    'BUE       223 

to  keep  count;  this  here  is  getting  interesting,  hey, 
Ben?" 

The  next  blow  brought  flecks  of  blood  to  the 
back  already  covered  with  bruised  stripes.  Ben- 
ton  closed  his  eyes  that  he  might  not  witness  the 
torture  he  was  powerless  to  prevent.  At  that 
moment  there  came  to  them  the  sound  of  Emma's 
voice.  It  was  not  far  away.  She  was  singing 
and  her  fresh,  clear  tones,  untrained  but  musical, 
came  to  them  with  startling  effect.  The  sob  was 
hushed  in  Jim's  throat.  Benton's  clenched  hands 
began  to  relax,  the  bloody  nails  showing  where 
they  had  been  driven  into  the  flesh  in  the  intensity 
of  his  rage  and  suffering.  The  strap  swung  list- 
lessly in  the  hairy  hand  of  the  merciless  master. 

She  was  singing  a  simple  ballad  of  her  native 
State  and  the  words  brought  before  their  minds 
familiar  scenes  and  forgotten  days  which  quieted 
to  some  degree  Benton's  resentment  and  softened, 
it  may  be,  'Bije's  inherent  cruelty.  But,  whether 
it  was  from  a  touched  conscience  or  from  fear  of 
discovery,  the  strap  was  cast  hastily  into  a  corner 
as  the  words  floated  to  them  on  a  sweet,  unpreten- 
tious air: 

"We've  wandered  'long  barefooted,  through  the  woods  trudged 

many  a  mile, 

The  pawpaw  and  the  blackhaw  gav?  a  zest  to  young  delight, — 
The  blue-grass  waved  a  smile, 
In  old  Missouri. 


224  STORK'S   NEST 

"The  Mississippi  bathed  our  feet,  its  waters  lulled  to  rest; 
For  us  the  locusts  blossomed,  and  deep  burned  the  goldenrod, — 
The  redbird  sang  his  best, 
In  old  Missouri! 

"  The  steamboat's  melancholy  cry  came  as  the  plaintive  dove, 
And  every  paddle-wheel  that  plied  from  steep  St.  Louis  shores 
To  Hannibal  we  love, 
In   old    Missouri. 

"  The  sorghum-cane  grew  yellow,  and   gave  forth  its  fragrant 

foam; 

The  maple-syrup  campfires  gleamed  on  clover-scented  fields, 
There  is  no  place  like  home — 
In  old  Missouri !  " 

The  song  grew  fainter  as  the  singer  passed 
farther  and  farther  away;  then  came  her  call — 
"'Bije!  O,  'Bije!" 

That  name  upon  her  lips  broke  the  spell  which 
had  silenced  Benton.  He  shouted  madly,  hoping 
she  might  come  and  discover  Jim's  situation. 

"She  can't  hear  you,"  said  'Bije.  "Don't 
exert  yourself,  Benny.  Well,  Jim,  she's  saved 
you  this  once  and  when  she's  my  wife  I  reckon 
you'll  have  an  easier  time.  I've  got  to  leave 
you,  my  lad,  but  we'll  count  fifty  another  time, 
hey,  my  boy?  We  won't  consider  this  ended  yet, 
will  we,  old  fellow?  We'll  have  to  begin  all 
over  again,  too,  but  we'll  wait  till  some  day 
when  we  have  lots  of  time  before  us.  Now  take 
this  knife,  my  fine  fellow,"  he  added,  thrusting  an 
open  knife  into  Jim's  hand.  "  If  you  work  indus- 


AT    THE   MERCY   OF   'BIJE       225 

triously  you  can  get  yourself  loose  in  about  half  an 
hour.  Then  you  can  liberate  Ben,  here.  So  long, 
gentlemen !  " 

'Bije  hastened  toward  the  door.  "  Be  sure," 
called  Benton  fiercely,  "  that  I  will  tell  Emma 
everything  that  has  happened  here.  She  shall  see 
your  character  as  it  is.  And  when  I  am  free " 

"  Please  send  the  rest  by  mail,"  called  'Bije,  as 
he  left  the  barn  with  eager  feet.  "  Here  I  am, 
Emmy,"  he  called;  "  I'm  cominM  " 

Jim  made,  indeed,  a  pitiful  object  as  he  stood 
with  the  knife  in  his  almost  helpless  hand.  'Bije 
had  learned  that  by  infinite  pains  and  patience  the 
lad  could  work  his  wrist  about  till  at  last  the  blade 
would  encounter  the  rope  that  held  his  arm, 
stretched  to  its  utmost  length;  then,  by  sawing 
back  and  forth  in  the  scant  space  afforded,  the  rope 
after  successive  efforts  would  be  severed. 

"  I  knowed  I'd  git  wolloped,"  said  Jim,  as  he 
tugged  at  the  rope,  and  his  voice  was  not  without 
a  dismal  note  of  triumph,  "  I  told  you  so !  Ben, 
you'll  pay  for  tryin'  to  he'p  me !  " 

"  I'm  ready  to  meet  'Bije  at  any  moment,"  cried 
Benton  angrily. 

"  Yap,"  said  Jim,  "  and  you'll  be  jest  as  ready 
to  git  away  from  him,  I  reckon.  Nobody  gits 
nothin'  off  o'  'Bije  without  payin'  int'rust.  But 
thanky  for  tryin'  to  help  me;  if  Emmy  had  n't 
sang,  I  felt  like  the  hunt  was  up." 

"  Can't  you  reach  that  rope,  Jim?  "  interrupted 


226  STORK'S   NEST 

the  other  impatiently.  "  I  want  to  take  you  to  the 
house  and  show  you  to  Emma." 

"  Who,  me?  Nuck!  I  ain't  goin'  to  rub  my- 
self on  'Bije's  memory.  I'm  ready  for  what  conies, 
but  I  ain't  goin'  after  it." 

"  I  shall  go  as  soon  as  you  cut  me  loose,"  cried 
Benton,  his  brown  eyes  burning  with  wrath  as  he 
recalled  the  scene  just  ended,  the  cringing,  shudder- 
ing half  naked  form  of  the  lad,  and  the  calm  re- 
morseless giant  dealing  his  cruel  blows.  "  I  am 
not  bound  out  to  that  wretch.  I  shall  leave  this 
place  at  once,  and,  if  there  is  any  justice  in  the 
county,  you  shall  be  set  free  to  go  with  me. 
There !  "  as  Jim's  knife  smote  the  edge  of  the 
rope,  "  cut  deeper,  Jim,  and  you  are  free.  I'll 
go  to  the  house  and  strike  while  the  iron's  hot." 

"  If  'Bije  is  the  iron  you  mean,"  whined  Jim, 
"  I  guess  you'll  always  find  him  warm  enough ! 
They  was  a  new  moon  last  night  an  '  I  knowed  it 
wa'n't  for  nothin'.  New  moons  has  been  the 
plague  of  my  life.  When  I  see  one  a-comin'  in 
the  almanac,  I  lay  out  ground  to  plant  aches  and 
misery.  An'  they  always  come  up,  ever'  hill  of 


'em." 


A  bolder  stroke  of  the  knife  severed  the  rope 
and  presently  the  orphan  was  free.  It  was  the 
matter  of  but  a  few  moments  to  set  Benton  at 
liberty. 

"  Come,  Jim,"  said  the  young  man  hastily. 

"  Nuck,"  said  Jim,  drawing  on  his  shirt  and 


AT    THE   MERCY   OF   'BIJE       227 

watching  the  other  with  a  dismal  face  until  eclipsed 
by  the  garment,  "  excuse  me,  Ben !  " 

"  Then  good-by,"  and  Benton  hurried  from  the 
corn  bin.  "  Wish  me  luck,  Jim !  "  he  called, 
hardly  yet  composed  in  view  of  the  approaching 
encounter. 

"  The  moon  hain't  right  for  luck,"  said  Jim, 
dolefully;  "  it's  too  fresh!" 

As  Benton  strode  across  the  lot  he  heard  dis- 
cordant sounds  from  the  parlor.  Emma  was  at 
the  piano,  Emma  and  'Bije.  His  face  hardened, 
and  the  light  in  his  eyes  burned  brighter  as  he 
drew  near. 


XIV 

"EMMY"  CHOOSES  THE  SHORT 
WAY 

BIJE,  with  the  helpless  moans  of  Jim  Whit- 
licks  still  sounding  in  his  ears,  met  Emma 
Garrett    wandering    in    the   yard.     As    he 
stepped  beside  her  the  sufferings  of  the  orphan 
and  the  fury  of  Jim's  friend  passed  from  his  mind. 
He  loved  the  girl  whose  bright  face  was  turned 
away,  and  his  voice  was  as  tender  as  it  was  deep  as 
he  said: 

"  YouVe  had  plenty  of  time,  I  hope,  to  reach 
a  decision,  Emmy.  I've  waited,  feeling  that  my 
life  depends  upon  your  answer.  I  can't  stand  this 
suspense  no  longer.  Have  you  been  taking  time  to 
think  it  over?  " 

1  Yes,"  said  Emma,  little  dreaming  how  he  had 
been  passing  his  period  of  suspense.  "  Yes,  I  have 
thought  hard  an'  long,  'Bije,  hard  an'  long." 

"We'll  go  to  the  parlor,"  said  'Bije,  "  an' 
there  I'll  have  your  final  answer.  You  know  how 
I  love  you,  dear  girl,  an'  have  loved  you  for  years. 
And  you  know  that  your  gran'father  thinks  high 
of  me,  and  I  reckon  you  don't  dislike  me 
yourself." 

228 


"EMMY'     CHOOSES   SHORT    WAY    229 

"  I  am  so  young,"  said  Emma,  plucking 
nervously  at  the  strings  of  her  sunbonnet,  which  she 
carried  in  her  hands.  She  looked  at  her  com- 
panion as  they  approached  the  front  steps,  but  no 
color  showed  in  her  rounded  cheeks. 

"  That's  another  reason,"  came  the  deep  voice, 
its  gentleness  giving  it  a  musical  reverberation. 
"  Your  dear  grandfather  can't  live  much  longer. 
What  '11  become  of  you,  then,  Emmy?  Just  step 
in  the  parlor;  I'll  be  there  directly." 

Emma  entered  the  front  room  and  'Bije 
hurried  to  the  dining-room,  where  Silas  and  his 
wife  were  sitting.  "  Come  on,  sister  Crishy,"  said 
'Bije  in  a  low  voice,  "  an'  make  your  little  speeches, 
as  rehearsed,  an'  speak  up  prompt  and  spicy!  " 

Mrs.  Stork's  eyes  seemed  to  have  turned  all  to 
whites  as  she  looked  at  her  brother-in-law,  but  she 
rose,  limp  and  skimpy  of  attire,  and  prepared  to 
follow.  They  had  scarcely  departed  when  Benton 
came  through  the  rear  door  and  found  Silas  alone. 

"  Why,  Ben !  "  exclaimed  the  farmer,  thrusting 
his  fingers  into  his  bushy  whiskers  and  seeking  to 
block  the  hall  door  with  his  squat  form,  "  yous 
hain't  waited  till  horn  blowin' !  " 

'Where  is  'Bije?"  Benton  interrupted,  push- 
ing his  way  into  the  hall. 

"  Better  slip  back,  brother,"  said  Silas,  in  a  con- 
ciliatory voice.  "  Better  return  to  them  sweet  airy 
pastures  an'  not  tromple  on  'Bije's  sensibilities, 
each  of  'em  as  tender  as  any  corn  to  my  toes." 


23o  STORK'S    NEST 

Benton  went  to  the  parlor  door  and  drew  it 
open  roughly.  As  he  did  so  Emma  said,  speak- 
ing very  slowly,  while  her  girlish  tones  smote 
upon  the  young  man's  heart: 

"  I  reckon  it's  the  best  thing  I  can  do." 

Benton  entered.  The  room  had  three  occu- 
pants: 'Bije,  Mrs.  Stork  and  Emma  Garrett.  It 
was  the  first  time  Benton  had  viewed  the  interior 
of  this  room  and,  even  in  his  excited  condition,  he 
found  surprise  in  the  costly  pictures,  the  rosewood 
furniture  and  the  velvet  carpet.  A  room  of  such 
luxurious  furnishings  in  the  house  whose  other 
rooms  were  so  poorly  appointed,  took  his  mind  for 
an  instant  from  those  who  had  hastily  turned  at 
the  sound  of  the  opened  door.  But  the  next 
moment  he  was  aware  of  'Bije's  heavy,  hostile 
brow,  of  Mrs.  Stork's  lean,  tall  form,  and  of 
Emma's  radiant  beauty. 

"  Why,  hello,  Ben !  "  said  Emma,  in  a  quiet  but 
friendly  voice.  She  was  seated  upon  the  piano 
stool,  her  back  to  the  instrument  and,  before  Ben- 
ton's  entrance,  she  had  been  facing  'Bije,  who 
stood  at  the  window.  She  made  no  motion  to  rise 
and  Benton  bowed  with  constraint.  He  turned 
at  once  toward  the  master  and  was  struck  by  his 
appearance,  which,  in  the  excitement  of  the  corn 
bin,  he  had  scarcely  observed.  'Bije  was  undeni- 
ably handsome.  He  was  dressed  in  a  decent  black 
suit  which  even  went  the  length  of  a  vest,  the 
closest  approach  to  a  coat  Benton  had  seen  since 


"EMMY'     CHOOSES   SHORT    WAY    231 

coming  to  this  wild  country.  His  shirt  was  not 
white,  of  course, — there  were  no  white  shirts  in 
the  neighborhood,  apparently,  save  Benton's, — 
but  it  was  as  near  white  as  pale  blue  polka  dots 
would  permit.  His  hair  was  carefully  arranged 
in  two  scallops,  his  neck  was  at  ease  in  a  high 
laundered  collar  and  his  face,  when  it  recovered 
from  a  momentary  flush  of  anger,  wore  its  grave 
authority. 

"  Well,  Benton,"  he  said  suavely,  u  how  you 
burst  in  upon  us!  Do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me? 
I  will  join  you  in  your  room,  if  you  desire." 

The  sight  of  Emma,  so  well  at  ease,  so  calm 
and,  though  friendly,  so  indifferent,  changed  Ben- 
ton's  purpose  or  rather  inspired  him  with  a  sudden 
resolution.  "  I  will  speak  to  you  here !  "  he  said 
firmly. 

'Bije  had  not  anticipated  so  speedy  a  liberation 
of  the  young  man.  In  truth,  Benton's  encourage- 
ment had  made  Jim  more  than  usually  expeditious 
with  the  knife.  However,  since  he  was  here,  it 
pleased  the  suitor  to  treat  him  with  supercilious 
politeness  and  at  the  same  time  to  wound  him  to 
the  quick  by  seeming  to  ignore  him  while  pressing 
his  suit. 

"  Indeed,  Emmy,"  he  said,  "  you  are  right.  It 
is  best  for  you  and  me  and  for  uncle  Hi.  I'll 
give  you  a  happy  life;  I'll  build  you  a  noble  house 
over  in  Gentry  County.  Say  the  word  an'  I'll  go 
to  work  on  it  to-morrow.  This  here  parlor  shows 


232  STORK'S    NEST 

you  how  every  room  in  that  house  '11  show  up. 
Say  the  word,  my  dear  girl,  say  the  word!  " 

Benton's  cheeks  turned  a  dusky  red,  not  so 
much  from  'Bije's  contemptuous  treatment  of  him, 
as  from  outraged  shame  that  Emma  could  listen 
to  such  a  villain.  It  was  true,  she  did  not  know 
him  as  he  was,  but  it  was  true  also  that  she  frankly 
regarded  the  suit  from  a  mercenary  point  of 
view. 

As  he  turned  to  regard  Emma  with  a  stern 
brow  he  was  more  than  ever  struck  by  the  beauty 
of  her  winning  face.  She  was  dressed  in  her 
accustomed  plain  attire.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
he  had  not  seen  her  for  so  long  a  time  and  had  so 
craved  to  see  her,  and  had  dreamed  over  the 
thought  of  her  at  his  humble  toil;  certain  it  was 
that  her  skin  looked  clearer  and  softer,  her  hair 
showed  a  more  exquisite  sheen  of  gold,  her  eyes 
appeared  of  a  darker  gray  and  of  a  brighter  light 
and  purer  clearness,  her  feet  were  more  like  per- 
fectly sculptured  marble. 

Benton  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  at  that 
moment  'Bije  darted  a  significant  glance  at  the 
mistress  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Stork,  who  had  been 
sitting  rigid  with  legs  crossed,  apparently  deeply 
interested  in  an  examination  of  the  foot  extended 
before  her,  spoke  in  an  automatic  voice: 

"  Emmy,  yous  know  'Bije  is  as  soft-hearted  a 
human  as  can  be  found.  So  I  have  always  knowed 
him  an'  so  you'll  experience." 


"  Indeed,  Emmy,"  he  said,  "  You  are  right;  it  is  best  for  you 
and  for  me.     Say  the  word,  my  dear  girl,  say  the  word." 


"EMMY'     CHOOSES   SHORT    WAY    233 

'Bije  glanced  at  his  sister-in-law  again,  this  time 
with  an  approving  nod. 

"  Mr.  Stork,"  Benton  interposed,  in  a  sharp, 
clear  tone,  "  I  have  come  upon  you  at  a  wrong 
time.  But  my  business  is  soon  stated." 

"  If  you  had  obeyed  me,"  said  'Bije  quietly, 
"  you  would  n't  have  made  this  mistake.  I  never 
give  orders  without  reason.  But  it  may  be  a  com- 
fort to  you  to  know  that  Emmy  has  found  a  pro- 
tector and,  when  she's  my  own  little  wife,  we'll 
live  in  a  house  that  them  St.  Louis  kinsfolks 
might  die  of  envy  to  inhabit.  You've  often 
wondered,  Benton,  what  would  become  of  Emmy, 
uncle  Hi  being  dead.  Now  you  see  she  is  pro- 
vided for." 

u  Benton,"  said  Emma,  turning  toward  him  and 
gazing  into  his  eyes  with  a  wistful,  almost  appeal- 
ing look  upon  her  face,  "  what  else  can  I  do?  I 
had  a  scheme  to  come  here  an'  take  lessons  of  you 
every  day,  an'  I  did  come,  but  you  was  always 
busy,  always  busy !  An'  gran'pop  has  got  weaker, 
now,  an'  he  wants  me  to  marry  'Bije;  he  says  it  '11 
rest  his  mind  to  knovv  I  will.  Looks  like  I'm 
drove  to  it.  An'  they  was  n't  no  help  from  you, 
Benton,  they  was  n't  no  help !  I  come  an'  I  waited, 
but  it  was  n't  no  use.  An' — an' — you  won't  care, 
will  yous?  " 

u  Whether  I  care  or  not  is  nothing  to  you," 
said  Benton  abruptly.  "  You  know  what  I  think 
of  this  man  and  I  have  no  more  to  say.  If  you 


234  STORK'S   NEST 

had  wanted  to  see  me  here,  you  could  have  asked 
for  me.  Perhaps  if  you  had  seen  this  fellow  as  I 
just  found  him,  beating  Jim  Whitlicks  in  the 
barn " 

"  'Bije  told  me  he  had  to  give  Jim  a  thrashin'," 
said  Emma,  a  bright  red  spot  coming  in  either 
cheek  at  Benton's  manner.  "  An'  there  are  times 
when  Jim  ain't  to  be  put  up  with;  you  know  that." 

Benton,  indignant  at  this  defense,  blazed  forth : 
"  It  is  well  for  you  to  defend  this  monster  since 
you  are  to  marry  him.  And  when  you  are  his 
wife,  you  can  help  him  to  strip  Jim  to  the  waist 
and  stretch  his  poor  arms  above  his  head  to  the 
rafters  and  count  the  blows  from  his  bloody  lash. 
Or,  if  you  do  not  enjoy  this  sport,  you  can  run  and 
hide  and  reflect  upon  the  sequel  of  selling  yourself 
for  this  man's  money." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  interposed  'Bije  coolly, 
though  his  eyes  darted  toward  the  other  a  savage 
glance,  "  when  a  fellow's  getting  trounced  he 
has  no  use  for  his  hands;  they'd  just  be  in  the  way, 
like.  That's  why  I  tied  'em  up.  Emmy,  say  the 
word!1' 

Emma's  face  showed  a  hard  light  as  she 
answered  a  little  louder  than  was  her  wont: 
"  Jest  consider  the  word  said." 

"  He  is  as  soft-hearted  a  mortal,"  Mrs.  Stork 
again  announced  in  her  monotonous  voice,  as  one 
who  speaks  by  rote,  "  as  kin  be  found.  I  have 
knowed  him  as  sich  an'  so  you'll  experience." 


"EMMY'     CHOOSES   SHORT    WAY    235 

"  I  have  come  to  tell  you,"  Benton  interrupted, 
"  that  I  am  going  to  leave  your  place." 

"  Whenever  you're  ready,"  returned  'Bije,  "  just 
make  your  own  schedule  an'  run  your  train  accord- 
ing to  it." 

"  Oh,  Ben !  "  Emma  exclaimed,  rising  suddenly, 
while  the  hardness  melted  as  by  magic  from  her 
face,  "  you  ain't  goin'  away,  Ben?  " 

"  Let  'im  go,"  said  'Bije;  "  did  n't  he  say  you 
was  n't  nothing  to  him?  As  if  we  did  n't  know 
that  before !  Don't  you  fret  about  him  nor  nothin' 
else,  Emmy;  when  we're  married,  we'll  go  to 
them  St.  Louis  kinfolks  an'  we'll  take  all  the  air 
out  'f  their  sails.  They'll  find  you  as  good  a 
woman  as  the  female  part  of  'em  ever  dared 
to  be." 

Emma  looked  at  'Bije  with  the  clear  steadiness 
she  had  hitherto  exhibited,  as  if  weighing  his  every 
word,  then  turned  to  the  young  man :  "  Ben,  when 
are  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  Benton   sternly;  "  at  once!  " 

"  H'ist  your  trunk  on  your  back,"  'Bije  advised, 
"  an'  turtle  off  in  your  own  shell.  Don't  stop  for 
gates,  nor  nothin'." 

Benton  had  not  considered  difficulties.  "  As 
soon  as  I  can,  I  will  go,"  he  replied  with  grim 
fixedness. 

''  Won't  I  see  you  again?  "  Emma  asked,  look- 
ing at  him  wistfully.  "  You'll  come  to  tell 
gran'pop  good-by,  won't  you  ?  " 


236  STORK'S    NEST 

"  Did  your  grandfather  come  with  you?  "  Ben- 
ton  asked,  turning  away.  "  If  so,  I  can  tell  him 
good-by  here." 

Emma  did  not  answer.  There  was  an  awkward 
pause. 

"Well,"  said  'Bije,  suddenly  lifting  his  head, 
"  go  or  stay.  Do  somethin'  I  " 

"  I  will  go,"  Benton  answered.  Emma's 
strange  meekness  after  her  haughty  bearing,  her 
humility  as  she  watched  him  with  clasped  hands, 
so  unlike  the  high-spirited  behavior  natural  to  her, 
touched  him  deeply.  "  I  owe  you  my  life,  Emma," 
he  said  with  sudden  gentleness,  "  and  if  the  time 
should  ever  come  I  would  gladly  repay  you  with 
my  own.  I  owe  you  some  happiness,  but  I  cannot 
hope  to  repay  you  that,  because  you  have  resolved 
to  marry  this  man  with  whom  I  know  you  can 
never  be  happy.  Good-by."  He  moved  away. 

44  Ben "  said  Emma,  then  paused.  He 

turned  toward  her  swiftly,  hoping  she  might,  after 
all,  depart  from  her  resolution. 

The  afternoon  sunlight  was  behind  her  as  she 
stood  between  Benton  and  the  open  window,  and 
its  golden  glory  edged  her  hair  with  radiant 
splendor.  At  that  moment  the  future  was  closed 
to  him,  and  he  fancied  he  was  taking  his  last  look 
at  the  Grand  River  girl.  The  sight  of  her  youth- 
ful beauty,  framed  in  August  gold,  and  the  reflec- 
tion that  it  would  soon  be  claimed  by  the  cruel 
master  of  Stork's  Nest  brought  him  exquisite  pain. 


"EMMY'     CHOOSES   SHORT    WAY    237 

Emma  added,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  Good-by!  " 
Still  he  waited.  It  was  always  a  sorrow  to  leave 
Emma.  But  she  had  turned  her  face  away  as  if 
he  were  already  gone  from  her  thoughts  and  from 
her  life. 


XV 
BROOM     CORN 

NOT  long  after  Benton's  abrupt  departure 
from  the  parlor  Silas  Stork  apologetically 
opened  the  door.     Emma  sat  upon  the 
piano  stool,  gazing  steadily  through  the  open  win- 
dow, Mrs.  Stork  was  covertly  watching  'Bije,  and 
there  was  little  affection  in  her  shifty  glance. 

"  'Bijey— "  said  Silas    timidly. 

'Bije  turned  abruptly  toward  him.  "  Seems  as 
if  the  whole  earth  is  comin'  here,"  he  muttered, 
"  before  I  can  get  my  courtin'  done !  Well,  Silas, 
what  do  you  want?  " 

"  Ben's  goin'  to  leave,  'Bijey,"  said  Silas,  in  his 
most  conciliating  tones.  "  I  refused  him  the  bosses 
an'  the  mules,  so  he  'lows  to  light  out  a-foot  an' 
send  a  wagon  here  from  Laclede  Station  after  his 
trunk.  An'  I  told  him  to  wait  till  I  seen  you  an' 
he's  promised  to  wait  jest  a  minute.  He's  down 
to  the  front  gate,  now,  an  honin'  to  git  fu'ther; 
an'  I  says " 

'Bije  interrupted  him  impatiently:  "  Oh,  yes, 
I'll  go  an'  talk  to  the  young — hum ! — gentleman. 
All  right.  Well,  Emmy,  you've  done  said  the 
word;  that  buoys  me  up  till  I  can  speak  with  you 
fu'ther.  I'll  be  back  at  once." 

238 


BROOM    CORN  239 

The  twins  left  the  parlor. 

u  Hold  on,  'Bije,"  said  Silas,  in  a  low  voice  as 
the  other  was  striding  toward  the  front  door. 
"  Wait  a  minute.  I've  been  thinkin'.  Now,  if 
Ben  goes  an'  gits  away  before  his  trunk  leaves  here 
an'  if  he  misses  them  shurs  afterwards,  nobody 
would  n't  think  but  what  we  had  a  hand  in  it, 
ever'body  standin'  pat  to  think  the  worst  of  man 
that  the  law  allows.  An'  then  we  would  be  up 
Salt  River,  shore !  Can't  yous  git  him  back  to  the 
house,  so  them  shurs " 

"What  are  you  talkin'  of?"  growled  'Bije, 
pausing  in  the  door.  "  Who  said  Ben  was  goin' 
to  leave  ?  Him  ?  Well,  who  is  he  ?  I  never  said 
so.  He'll  stay  right  here  along  of  his  certificates 
till  they  can  be  took  by  Hezzie  Whitlicks  from 
under  his  very  nose.  Now  it's  me  tellin'  you !  " 

Silas  extended  his  arm  toward  his  brother  in 
proud  affection,  saying  to  the  empty  hall,  "  An' 
his  name  air  'Bije  Stork!  " 

'Bije,  wholly  unappeased  by  this  compliment, 
growled  fiercely:  "  You  are  a  mighty  little  man 
to  be  so  big  a  fool,  Si !  " 

"  Look,  'Bijey,  I  know  I  air  a  fool,  but  look  at 
Ben ;  he  have  dumb  the  gate !  " 

"  I'll  get  him,"  said  'Bije  confidently.  "  Both 
of  us  has  gone  too  far  to  let  him  get  fu'ther!  " 

Benton,  however,  was  not  so  eager  to  be  gone 
as  Silas  feared.  For  a  time  hot  anger  had  borne 
him  away,  but  already  the  influence  of  Emma  had 


240  STORK'S   NEST 

asserted  itself.  Even  the  thought  of  her  readiness 
to  sacrifice  herself  began  to  find  an  excuse  in  the 
wishes  of  her  grandfather.  She  was  but  a  child, 
so  pure  and  tender-hearted,  so  dutiful  and  loving, 
comprehending  so  little  the  result  of  the  step  she 
was  about  to  take.  She  was  but  a  child,  with  life's 
morning  sunbeams  quivering  in  her  hair  and 
sparkling  in  her  eyes.  He  must  judge  her  as  a 
child  and  his  heart  plead  for  her.  After  all,  she 
was  not  so  much  like  a  willful  woman  about  to  pur- 
chase position  with  the  giving  of  self,  as  like  a 
martyr,  ready  to  be  cast  into  the  arena  to  a  wild 
beast.  Poverty,  necessity  and  disease  had  joined 
their  grizzly  hands  against  her. 

Could  he  go  away  and  leave  her  to  her  fate? 
Who  then  would  prove  her  protector?  He  might, 
doubtless,  find  a  situation  as  near  the  log  cabin, 
where  the  table  would  be  more  bountifully  sup- 
plied, and  life,  in  every  respect,  would  prove 
pleasanter.  If  forced  to  work  farther  away,  the 
genial  Hicky  Price  might  offer  him  work.  But,  in 
his  new  resolve  to  do  his  utmost  to  prevent  this 
marriage,  Benton  felt  that  he  should  remain  at 
Stork's  Nest  to  watch  'Bije,  to  convict  him,  if  pos- 
sible, of  some  crime,  to  remain  as  Jim's  protector 
and  to  find,  if  might  be,  in  another  occupant  of 
the  Snake  Room,  the  means  of  bringing  'Bije  to  a 
just  punishment.  He  was  standing  upon  the  far- 
ther side  of  the  gate,  irresolute,  when  'Bije 
came  up. 


BROOM   CORN  241 

"Well,  Ben,"  said  'Bije,  without  a  trace  of 
anger  or  excitement  in  his  deep  tones,  "  you  are 
putting  out,  hey?  Si  says  you'd  like  to  borrow 
the  hosses." 

"  It  would  save  me  a  walk  to  Laclede  Station," 
Benton  answered  quietly,  "  and  I  think  it  would 
look  better  for  you  to  accomodate  me." 

"Sure,"  said  'Bije,  nodding.  "That's  right. 
Well,  where  will  you  stay  to-night,  Ben?  They 
ain't  no  train  till  mornin'.  You'll  get  over  to 
Laclede  Station  after  sun.  The  store  an'  post 
office  will  be  locked  up  an'  everybody  gone.  Where 
will  you  put  my  hosses  and  who'll  bring  'em  back? 
Now  I  can  trust  you,  but  no  other  living  man, 
with  them  hosses.  Don't  tell  me  Jim  can  go  along 
and  bring  'em  back!  Jim  ain't  got  enough  back- 
bone to  say  '  gee  '  to  a  boss  if  it  has  took  a  fancy 
to  '  haw.'  Now  we're  talking  reasonable,  you 
see,  as  a  plain,  saving  man  to  a  gentleman.  I'll 
have  Si  take  you  over  in  the  mornin',  if  you  can  by 
strainin'  wait  overnight,  here.  An'  then  it's  hey 
for  Blair  City,  I  suppose?  " 

"  I  shall  not  return  to  Blair  City,"  said  Benton, 
watching  him  narrowly.     "  I  mean  to  stay  right 
here  in  this  neighborhood.     Perhaps  Hicky  Price^^ 
will  employ  me." 

"  But  Ben,  if  a  job  is  what  you  want,  ain't  you 
already  got  one?"  'Bije  remonstrated.  "Now 
let's  talk  as  a  plain,  saving  man  to  a  gentleman. 
You  don't  love  me,  Ben,  but  that  ain't  no  cause 


242  STORK'S    NEST 

for  neither  of  us  gettin'  huffy  about  it.  You  don't 
want  to  love  me  and  I  don't  want  you  to,  so  both 
of  us  is  satisfied.  The  world  is  just  filled  up  and 
overflowin'  with  other  folks  besides  you  and  me; 
enough  for  both  of  us  to  love.  Ben,  I'm  going 
away  in  about  an  hour.  I'm  going  to  drive  over 
to  Pawpaw  Point,  an'  take  train  for  Gentry 
County,  an'  in  the  mornin'  I'll  begin  buildin'  mine 
an'  Emmy's  house.  I  expected  her  to  say  the  word 
to-day  an'  I've  been  allowin'  to  set  out  this  even- 
ing. That's  why  I  give  Jim  such  a  wollopin'.  I 
can't  expect  to  lay  hands  on  him  for  some  weeks 
an',  if  I'd  let  him  go  unwolloped,  he'd  been 
simply  beyond  recall  when  I  come  back.  That 
boy  has  got  to  be  dressed  down  occasionally.  He 
gets  to  thinking  on  imaginary  troubles  till,  if  you 
don't  give  him  somethin'  real  an'  tingling  to  muse 
over,  he'd  go  mad." 

"  I  will  not  discuss  your  brutal  treatment  of 
Jim !  "  Benton  cried,  his  eyes  flashing. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  Ben,  who  asked  you  to? 
You  do  the  listening  an'  I'll  attend  to  the  dis- 
cussing. So,  as  I  say,  I  won't  be  here  for  you  to 
look  at  an'  take  exceptions  to,  so  why  not  help  Si 
out,  and  be  getting  more  money,  and  hold  your 
job?  Si  '11  keep  you  a  gentleman;  I'm  talking  to 
you  as  if  you  was  one,  spite  of  appearances.  And 
here  you  can  stay  till  my  house  is  built,  and  a  big 
wedding  with  a  ring,  an'  flower-girls " 

"  I  will  stay,"  said  Benton  coldly,  "  if  you  go." 


BROOM    CORN  243 

"  Good  for  you !  And  don't  be  oneasy  about 
Emmy.  Though  you  don't  love  me,  have  the 
justice  to  remark  that  I  love  her  with  all  my  heart. 
When  we  two  are  one  she'll  spend  my  money  like  J[  ^ 
water,  just  like  water.  You  have  n't  saw  it  water- 
ing our  farm  very  copious,  hey?  Well,  when  we 
two  are  one  it  '11  keep  our  place  irrigated.  They 
won't  be  no  drouths  in  our  locality!  Everythin' 
will  be  as  merry  as  a  whistle.  Good-day;  fare 
thee  well." 

Benton  went  for  a  solitary  walk  in  the  wood  and 
stayed  till  sunset.  Since  he  was  not  to  leave  the 
farm,  there  was  no  need  to  hunt  Hiram.  When  he 
at  last  sought  the  house,  he  was  relieved  to  find 
that  'Thuze  was  gone.  Jim  Whitlicks  informed 
him  that  'Bije  had  departed,  also. 

"  He  have  went,"  said  Jim,  stretching  his  eyes. 
"  He  have  actually  put  out!  He  did  n't  take  the 
road  uncle  Hi  and  Emmy  took,  nuther!  And  he 
said  he'd  send  the  hoss  home  by  some  un'  else, 
to-morry.  Well,  it  won't  be  no  better  for  me;  Si 
will  keep  tab  of  ever'thin'  I  say." 

"  Be  very  careful,"  said  Benton    abstractedly. 

"  But  I'm  boun'  to  say  somethin'  to  get  me  into 
trouble,"  whined  Jim.  "  Steam  must  git  out  or 
bu'st  the  kittle.  Say,  Ben,  I  feel  closter  to  yous 
sence  yous  stood  up  fur  me  before  'Bije.  Say ! 
I  want  to  thank  yous,"  he  added  with  a  hang-dog 
look,  deeply  ashamed,  it  appeared,  of  expressing 
his  gratitude.  "  An'  now,"  he  added  hastily,  "  I 


244  STORK'S   NEST 

want  to  tell  yous  what  I  think  I  heerd  just  as  'Bije 
was  gittin'  ready  to  put  out.  He  says  to  Si,  *  If 
that  trunk  gits  away  from  here  before  I  come 
back, — '  that  is  what  he  says  to  Si, — '  you'll  wish 
you'd  been  the  only  son  in  pa's  f ambly !  ' 

"  You  think  he  meant  my  trunk,  Jim?  " 

!<  I  guess  it  wa'n't  his  own,"  remarked  Jim, 
dryly,  "  an'  I  hain't  got  none.  Then  Si,  he  says 
somethin'  about  burnin'  of  somethin',  and  'Bije 
asked  if  he  was  shore  he  burnt  ever'  scrap;  an'  I 
think  Si  says  he  done  it,  an'  'Bije  says  to  look  an' 
make  shore.  Was  he  talkin'  about  your  minin' 
certificates,  d'  ye  reckon?  " 

Benton  felt  in  his  bosom.  "  No,  I  have 
them  safe.  It  could  n't  have  been  any  of  my 
things." 

'  They  talked  as  if  it  was,"  said  Jim,  shaking 
his  head. 

Benton  had  a  wild  notion  that  reference  might 
have  been  made  to  his  faded  flowers,  but  when 
he  reached  his  bedroom  he  found  everything 
safe. 

'Bije's  departure  changed  the  atmosphere  of 
the  place.  Everybody  became  freer  in  his  move- 
ments and,  while  the  same  rigid  economy  was  pre- 
served, Mrs.  Stork  was  at  liberty  to  complain  from 
morning  till  night.  To  do  her  justice,  she  took 
full  advantage  of  her  opportunities  and  scolded 
without  ceasing,  and  also  without  accomplishing 
anything  beyond  the  relief  of  her  feelings.  Silas, 


BROOM    CORN  245 

always  good-natured,  always  stingy,  kept  Benton 
and  Jim  at  work  as  steadily  as  if  the  brother  had 
been  present. 

"  Now  I  have  set  Wednesday  as  corn  breakin' 
day,"  he  announced  the  evening  before.  '  We'll 
have  a  delightful  time  to-morrow,  all  the  neigh- 
borhood boys  an'  gals  here  to  help  break  corn. 
It  '11  be  a  reg'lar  World's  Fair  day.  Don't  hev 
to  pay  'em  a  cent,  Ben;  yous  see,  we  swap  our 
labor  betwixt  each  other.  An'  I  have  prevailed 
on  some  of  'em  to  bring  their  own  grub.  Some 
will  have  to  be  fed,  Crishy,  an'  you'll  have  to 
serve  hot,  I  reckon.  We  don't  want  no  talk." 

Accordingly,  the  next  morning  saw  more  than  a 
dozen  youths  enter  the  Storks'  broom  corn. 
Hiram  drove  Emma  over  to  be  one  of  the  hands. 
Both  sexes  were  represented,  all  barefoot.  They 
were  a  sturdy  set,  large-limbed,  broad-footed, 
muscular.  The  young  men  were  sunburned  to 
the  redness  of  Hicky  Price.  The  girls  lacked  the 
fineness  which  set  Emma  apart  from  her  associates. 
Their  heads  were  large,  their  brows  heavy,  their 
shoulders  broad.  They  all  knew  each  other,  and 
laughed  and  called  in  bantering  tones  as  they 
worked. 

"  Look  at  Jim  Whitlicks!  "  called  one  maiden 
to  a  distant  youth.  "  He  always  works  next  to 
Liza  Mary.  Funny  anybody  so  nachurly  meechin' 
kin  git  up  such  nerve." 

Benton,  looking  at  Jim,  was  astonished  to  find 


246  STORK'S   NEST 

him  gazing  upon  his  red-haired  neighbor  with 
romance  on  his  sallow  face. 

;<  Them's  the  kind,"  came  back  the  answer,  "  as 
is  married  before  yous  kin  turn  aroun'." 

There  were  shouts  of  delighted  laughter. 

"  Well,"  cried  the  maiden  boldly,  "  why  don't 
yous  take  counsel  of  Jim  Whitlicks  an'  sa'prise 
your  friends,  Jake  O'Brien?" 

More  laughter.  Jim  was  much  embarrassed, 
his  fair  companion,  blushing  and  smiling,  well 
pleased. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  have  Jim  pestered,"  called 
Emma.  "  You  leave  him  be,  Elly  Ann !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Emmy  Garrett,  we  all  know  whar 
your  bread's  buttered!  "  retorted  Elly  Ann. 

1  Too  much  talkin',  neighbors,  too  much 
talkin',"  cried  Silas  good-humoredly.  "  Bend  to 
it,  neighbors !  " 

"  Si,  when  yous  come  to  break  our  broom 
corn,"  shouted  Jake  O'Brien,  "  we're  goin'  to 
muzzle  yous!  " 

Loud  guffaws.     Shrill  peals. 

All  this  while  Benton  had  not  found  an  oppor- 
tunity to  greet  Emma.  From  a  distant  part  of 
the  field,  he  could  see  her  walking  backward,  bend- 
ing the  cornstalks  over  each  arm  till  they  were 
broken.  She  made  a  graceful  picture,  the  little 
hands  extended,  the  body  bent  back,  the  feet 
flitting  like  white  sunbeams  through  the  dusky 
greenness.  A  sunbonnet  covered  her  hair,  the 


BROOM    CORN  247 

same  blue  sunbonnet  he  had  found  upon  Hiram's 
bed.  Ah,  if  she  could  have  known  what  he  had 
done  to  that  sunbonnet !  But  she  could  not  know. 
Would  she  have  cared  to  know  ?  Did  she  think  of 
him,  as  her  graceful  form  bent  in  youth's  supple- 
ness, her  head  tilted  back?  She  talked  to  others, 
but  if  she  ever  glanced  his  way,  he  could  not  tell. 
She  was  at  home  in  the  broom  corn;  he  was  not. 
It  would  have  been  easy  for  her  to  direct  those 
little  feet  toward  him,  but  they  stole  about  their 
noiseless  toil,  ever  far  away;  and  so  the  morning 
melted  into  the  heat  of  noon.  Luncheon  was 
spread  under  a  huge  forest  tree  which  grew  in  the 
pasture  beside,  a  pond.  Benton  thought  that  per- 
haps Emma  would  now  approach  him  and  offer 
to  share  her  luncheon. 

"Where's  Jim?"  called  Emma,  in  the  con- 
fusion of  spreading  lunches.  The  air  rang  with 
happy  voices,  among  which  Silas's  jovial  tones 
sounded  without  discord. 

"  He's  settin'  to  Liza  Mary,"  came  a  masculine 
voice.  There  was  loud  laughter,  of  course.  Ben- 
ton  thought  Emma  would  then  call  him,  but  she 
did  not.  She  cast  a  glance  in  his  direction,  it  is 
true,  but  his  eyes  fell. 

"  Ben,"  said  Silas,  "  hain't  yous  goin*  to  fall 
to?  Go  thar  an'  eat  by  Crishy's  own  side.  I  give 
yous  my  place,  as  the  gentleman  of  Stork's  Nest." 

'*  Thank  you,"  said  Benton,  with  a  dismal  smile. 
But,  with  sudden  resolution,  he  walked  to  where 


248  STORK'S    NEST 

Emma  sat  alone  upon  the  grass.  "  How  do  you 
do,  Emmy?  "  he  said  with  constraint. 

Emma  looked  up  at  him  from  under  the  brim 
of  her  sunbonnet.  '  Thought  you  goin'  away," 
she  remarked.  There  was  a  haunting  charm  on 
the  sweet  face,  now  softened  by  the  cool  shadow 
of  the  bonnet,  which  wrung  his  heart  with  pain 
and  pleasure. 

"  Did  you  want  me  to  go,  Emmy?  "  he  asked 
gently. 

'*  Why  of  course  not,"  said  Emma,  but  she 
spoke  in  a  tone  of  the  utmost  indifference.  "  Say, 
Jim!  come  over  here  an'  share  my  dinner 
with  me  I  " 

Benton  was  wounded  by  her  manner.  He  went 
to  Mrs.  Stork,  and  took  melancholy  satisfaction 
in  eating  by  her  side  and  in  being  miserable  under 
her  flow  of  bitter  complaints.  There  was  no 
reason  why  Emma  should  have  treated  him  with 
such  indifference.  Her  manner  had  changed 
greatly  since  the  parting  in  the  parlor.  'Bije  had 
spent  some  time  with  her  alone  and  the  change 
might  be  due  to  his  parting  commands;  yet  it  was 
difficult  to  conceive  of  Emma's  yielding  passively 
to  her  suitor's  orders.  At  any  rate,  'Bije  was  now 
far  away  and  there  was  necessarily  a  pause  in  the 
course  of  the  little  tragedy  of  love. 

A  few  nights  after  the  corn  breaking,  Benton 
was  awakened  by  hearing  a  strange  sound  outside 
the  room.  He  started  up,  but  all  was  still.  Jim 


BROOM    CORN  249 

had  not  been  awakened.  Benton  slipped  from  the 
bed  and  crept  to  the  door.  He  had  not  listened 
long  when  the  sound  came  again.  It  reminded 
him  of  that  which  he  and  Emma  had  heard  the 
day  they  inspected  the  house,  that  which  she  had 
declared  emanated  from  the  Snake  Room. 

He  cautiously  opened  his  door.  The  hall  was 
intensely  dark  and  he  ventured  into  it,  his  bare 
feet  making  no  sound.  As  he  approached  the 
mysterious  chamber  an  almost  imperceptible  odor 
of  burning  sulphur  came  to  his  nostrils.  He 
paused,  undecided  how  to  proceed.  As  he  stood 
motionless,  one  hand  against  the  farther  wall, 
there  came  from  the  room  a  subdued  scratching 
as  upon  metal.  It  did  not  long  continue  but  it' 
was  sufficient  to  prove  that  the  Snake  Room  had 
its  occupant.  Benton  was  unarmed.  Should  he 
venture  into  the  forbidden  apartment  he  might 
confront  a  desperate  villain,  none  other,  he  felt 
sure,  than  the  ghostly  Hezzie  Whitlicks,  who 
might  well  be  expected  to  receive  him  with  vio- 
lence. The  sound  ceased  and  presently  the 
peculiar  odor  died  away.  From  a  great  distance, 
as  it  appeared,  came  a  dull  thud,  so  faint  it  was 
almost  imperceptible.  Then  another;  then,  after 
long  waiting,  a  third.  Benton  resolved  to  bring 
witnesses  the  next  night  and  burst  into  the  room. 
The  outlaw  would  thus  be  surprised  at  whatever 
he  might  have  undertaken  and,  without  doubt, 
'Bije  would  be  implicated.  He  seemed  so  certain 


250  STORK'S   NEST 

that  the  means  for  breaking  off  Emma's  con- 
templated marriage  was  at  hand,  that  the  young 
man  was  able  to  sleep  with  the  mystery  un- 
explained. 

As  he  and  Jim  went  to  breakfast  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  was  astonished  to  find  the  door  of  the 
Snake  Room  standing  wide  open. 

"  Thar's  the  old  coffin,"  said  Jim,  thrusting  his 
head  through  the  doorway.  "  Dark  as  Indy  in 
here,"  he  added  in  an  awed  voice. 

Benton  boldly  strode  into  the  room  and  lit  a 
lamp  which  stood  upon  a  bare  table.  In  a  corner 
was  a  single  bed.  There  were  some  clothes  in  the 
room  which  Benton  recognized  as  belonging  to 
'Bije  and  a  few  pieces  of  furniture.  Jim  crept 
after  him,  and  tried  a  closet  door,  remarking 
"Locked!" 

;<  Why,  hello!"  said  Silas,  suddenly  appearing 
at  the  door.  u  Did  n't  yous  know  breakfast's 
ready?  Jim,  what  air  yous  doin'  in  here?  It's 
all  right  for  a  gentleman  to  go  into  private  rooms, 
but  I  bet  you  a  big  wollopin'  is  in  store  for  your 
trespassin' !  " 

"  Mr.  Silas,"  said  Benton,  "  I'd  like  to  know 
whose  coffin  this  is,  if  you  please !  " 

"  Mine,"  said  Silas.  "  I'm  to  be  buried  in  it 
when  my  time  comes,  an'  I  got  it  cheap.  Shall 
we  go  below?  " 

'*  The  reason  I  am  in  here  is  this,"  said  the 
young  man,  watching  Silas  closely:  "  Last  night  I 


BROOM    CORN  251 

heard  strange  noises  from  this  room,  and  Emma 
had  already  prepared  me  for  them.  Would  you 
mind  to  tell  me  what  you  were  doing  last  night?  " 

"  Sure  not,"  said  Silas  kindly.  "  I  was  'tendin' 
to  my  own  business;  what  was  yous  doin'?  " 

"  I  was  witnessing  the  presence  of  an  intruder 
in  this  room,"  said  Benton,  "  and  I  shall  make  my 
testimony  good." 

"  It  was  me  in  this  room,"  said  Silas,  "  an'  none 
other.  I  was  experimentin'  with  some  sulphur,  if 
you  must  know,  to  kill  insects  on  my  fruit-trees 
which  I  lay  off  to  spray  this  day.  An'  if  yous 
don't  think  that  sprayin'  is  on  the  billboards  you'll 
think  so  when  yous  have  sprinkled  about  a 
hundred  trees !  " 

The  spraying  of  the  trees  was  indeed  a  matter 
of  reality,  but  whether  previously  projected  or 
devised  upon  the  spot,  there  was  no  way  to  deter- 
mine. For  several  days  the  Snake  Room  was  left 
open,  and  when  one  morning  Benton  found  the 
door  closed,  Silas,  finding  his  expression  changed, 
casually  threw  it  open.  It  seemed  hopeless  to  dis- 
cover any  hidden  crimes  of  'Bije  until  'Bije  should 
return.  In  the  meantime,  Emma's  birthday  was 
at  hand,  and  the  prospect  of  spending  the  day  with 
her  and  removing  the  cloud  which  had  come 
between  them  caused  Benton  to  forget  the  myster- 
ious sounds  and  the  unusual  odor  of  the  dark  hall. 


XVI 

"WEARING    OUT    ALL    OVER" 

THE  Sunday  of  Emma's  seventeenth  birth- 
day dawned  with  the  serene  smile  of  early 
September.     A  dreamy  haze  hung  about 
the  horizon  and  the  sky,  a  deep  blue  overhead, 
shaded  away  into  pale  and  paler  azure,  as  it  sloped 
lovingly  down  to  the  fragrant  wood  and  meadow 
land.    Benton  set  forth  alone  for  Hiram  Garrett's 
cabin  about  two  hours  before  noon.    Jim  preferred 
to  remain  at  home. 

"  Nuck,"  said  Jim,  "  birthdays  hain't  no 
occasions  for  me.  I  hain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with 
birthdays;  I'm  always  sorry  when  I  see  mine 
comin'  round.  I  says  to  myself,  '  Well,  pard,  this 
brings  yous  one  peg  nearer  the  grave.'  Now  if  it 
were  a  funer'l,  Ben,  I'd  go  in  a  minute.  I'm  great 
on  them." 

Benton  made  no  attempt  to  influence  the  other; 
he  himself  felt  despondent  and  Jim's  gloomy  face 
and  doleful  tone  appealed  to  him  more  than  ever 
before.  He  was  inclined  to  be  angry  with  himself 
for  placing  such  importance  upon  Emma's  neglect, 
for  allowing  her  behavior  toward  him  to  over- 
shadow, as  it  were,  the  sky  of  his  mind,  but  he 
seemed  helpless  in  the  grasp  of  an  emotion  new, 

252 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OVER"    253 

bewildering,  inconsistent.  He  was  impatient  to 
reach  the  log  cabin,  and  at  the  same  time  he 
dreaded  to  come  in  sight  of  it.  He  hurried,  then 
paused  to  let  the  morning  run  ahead  of  him.  He 
feared  to  be  too  early  or  too  late.  When  the  cabin 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  his  heart  leaped 
with  loving  recognition;  but  the  black  oblong  of 
the  opened  door  made  him  pause  at  the  thought 
of  watchful  eyes.  As  he  drew  near  the  stile,  Hiram 
issued  from  the  cabin  carrying  a  chair;  his  step 
had  grown  noticeably  feebler. 

Hiram  started  at  the  sight  of  the  young  man. 
"  Hi,  son!  "  he  called  out  in  his  worn-out  voice, 
while  a  tender  smile  lit  up  the  dried,  wrinkled 
face.  He  waved  the  hand  which  held  his  unlighted 
pipe.  Ben  hastened  forward,  cheered  by  this 
welcome. 

"  Emmy,  Emmy!  "  called  Hiram,  who  sank  into 
his  chair  wearily  after  the  greeting.  "  Here's 
Ben,  settin'  on  the  doorstep  as  if  he'd  never 
left  it!" 

Benton's  acute  ear  caught  footsteps  from  the 
kitchen.  The  rear  door  was  opened,  and  Emma 
came  around  the  house.  The  first  glimpse  of  her 
reminded  him  of  the  hours  of  sorrow  he  had  spent 
on  her  account,  and  of  her  indifference  and  plainly 
intentional  slights.  He  remembered  how  he  had 
striven  to  improve  her,  how  he  had  spent  patient 
days  correcting,  advising,  helping,  and  how,  as  a 
return,  she  had  treated  him  with  less  friendliness 


254  STORK'S    NEST 

than  such  strangers  as  Elly  Mary,  and  Jake 
O'Brien.  The  recollection  rendered  him  un- 
usually grave. 

"  Howdy,  Ben,"  said  Emma  quietly,  advanc- 
ing, and  holding  out  her  hand.  "  Gran'pop  said 
you'd  come.  I  said  you  would  n't.  Glad  to  see 
you."  Her  manner  was  that  of  the  girl  who  had 
first  greeted  him  on  his  arrival  in  the  strange 
country.  They  shook  hands.  "  Take  care  of  your- 
self," said  Emma  hospitably.  "  I'll  go  get 
dinner.  We'll  have  a  rousin'  big  one,  if  I  do 
say  it  myself." 

"  Honey,"  said  the  old  man,  "  looks  like  on 
your  birthday  yous  ought  to  have  a  rest.  Make 
the  dinner  light,  Emmy — jest  seein'  yous  at  the 
table,  smilin'  an'  seventeen,  will  be  fried  chickun 
to  me." 

"  I'll  have  the  fried  chicken,"  Emma  declared, 
laughing,  "  so  you  can  save  me  for  dee-zert." 

"  I  consider  that  a  promise,"  said  Benton,  with 
a  grave  smile  and  a  searching  look,  "  and  I  shall 
ask  you  to  fulfill  it,  presently." 

Emma  looked  at  him,  but  her  dark  eyes  told  him 
nothing.  Had  'Bije  ordered  her  to  hold  him 
aloof,  and  would  Emma  obey  such  orders?  The 
suspicion  made  his  blood  boil.  At  one  moment  he 
despised  her  weakness;  at  the  next,  for  that  very 
weakness,  he  loved  her.  The  old  man  rambled 
on  in  his  faint  voice,  but  it  was  some  time  before 
the  other  heeded  the  words, 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OVER"    255 

"  My  time  ain't  .fur  off,  Ben,"  he  was  saying. 
"  I'm  a-wearin'  out  all  over.  Wish  now  I'd  laid 
more  on  the  Bible  when  stout  an'  lusty.  Were  I 
what  I  should  have  been,  I  might  be  catchin' 
Christians  in  the  daytime  an'  skunks  at  night;  it 
would  be  hard  to  tell  which  air  more  valuable." 

"  Mr.  Garrett,"  said  Benton  suddenly,  "  'Bije 
Stork  is  not  a  fit  husband  for  your  granddaughter. 
His  age  is  the  least  objection  to  him,  but  that  alone 
should  debar  him.  A  young,  impulsive  girl  like 
Emma  could  never  be  happy  with  such  an  old 
man,  used  to  being  obeyed  in  everything,  tyran- 
nical, cold,  unyielding." 

"  Your  uncle  Hi  knows  'Bije,"  said  the  other, 
a  faint  flush  showing  in  the  withered  cheeks. 
"  He's  always  kept  inside  the  law  an'  Emmy  kin 
wrap  him  around  her  little  finger.  They  ain't  no 
broad  stripe  on  'Bije  Stork." 

"  No  broad  stripe?"   repeated  Benton. 

"  Nuck.  He  was  catched  in  cold  weather,  'Bije 
was.  He's  black  all  over." 

"  And  through  and  through,"  remarked  the 
other  with  some  bitterness.  "  You  seem  to  know 
him,  after  all." 

"  Why,  my  son,  you  don't  understand.  Black 
skunks  brings  a  dollar  and  thirty  cents,  but  them 
with  stripes  fetches  only  a  quarter.  An'  if  not 
catched  in  cold  weather  they're  good  fur  nothin', 
though  I  may  say  that  hot  weather  skunks  makes 
the  rankest  ile,  I  was  comparin'  'Bije  to  that 


256  STORK'S   NEST 

which  is  my  meat  an'  bread,  my  livin'  an*  my 
stand-by." 

"  And  a  very  proper  comparison,"  said  the 
young  man  promptly.  "  If  you  call  'Bije  a  skunk, 
you'll  not  object  to  my  doing  so;  and  at  no  very 
distant  day,  I  hope  to  prove  to  you  and  to  Emma 
that  the  comparison  holds  good  in  many  ways  you 
do  not  now  suspect." 

The  old  man  smoked  in  silence  for  a  time,  then 
answered:  "  I  hev'  confidence  in  'Bije,  an'  if  it  was 
removed  it  could  n't  bring  me  nothin'  but  sor- 
row, fur  he's  Emmy's  only  hope  as  fur  as  I  kin 


see." 


"  Emma  need  never  throw  herself  away  upon 
such  a  man  as  'Bije  Stork  while  I  live,"  said  Ben- 
ton  firmly.  '  The  man  who  can  beat  poor  Jim 
Whitlicks  on  the  bare  back  is  not  fit  to  come  into 
your  granddaughter's  presence." 

"  My  son,"  said  Hiram,  suddenly  removing  his 
pipe  and  staring  at  his  guest,  "  what  could  you  do 
for  Emmy?  " 

The  question  took  Benton  by  surprise.  What, 
indeed,  could  he  do?  He  had  nothing  in  the 
world  except  the  strength  of  his  arms  and  the 
resolution  to  succeed.  If  he  were  willing  to  share 
his  meager  earnings  with  Emma  she  was  too  high- 
spirited  to  accept  his  charity.  The  old  man 
resumed  kindly: 

"  You  could  do  nothin',  my  son,  nothin'.  An' 
if  you  succeeded  in  settin'  her  against  'Bije,  it 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OVER"    257 

would  n't  be  no  kindness  to  me  nor  to  her;  it 
would  be  removin'  the  only  prop  I've  got  to  die 
on  an'  her  to  live  on.  But  thar's  dinner  ready; 
le's  keep  holiday  an'  not  rake  an'  scrape  among 
the  ashes  that  the  cheerful  fire  is  blazin'  over." 

In  answer  to  Emma's  call,  they  filed  into  the 
hot  kitchen.  The  dinner  was  an  ambitious  one. 
Hiram  took  the  privileged  seat  near  the  door  and 
threw  open  his  shirt  collar,  while  Benton  found 
himself  next  to  the  roaring  stove  upon  which  a 
teakettle  blubbered  loudly. 

"  'Tain't  no  use,  I  reckon,  Ben,"  said  Emma, 
"to  ask  you  to  take  off  your  coat;  you've  never 
done  it  yet.  I  don't  know  what  he's  got  under 
there,"  she  added  to  Hiram,  "but  they  was  n't 
never  no  mysteries  about  your  clothes,  was  they, 
you  old  darlin'  gran'pop?" 

"Don't  say  nothin' ! "  cried  Hiram,  "jest  look 
at  them  corn-on-the-cobs,  an'  fall  to !  " 

"  I  think  you'll  find  the  cornbread  proper,  too," 
said  Emma  with  pride.  "  It  browned  jest  as  I 
wanted  it  and  done  through  the  middle  and  not  a 
burnt  edge." 

"That  chicken  looks  fine,"  smiled  Benton. 
"Browned  delightfully!" 

"  See  them  pole  beans !  "  Hiram  urged.  "  Help 
yourself  an'  git  'em  this  way.  If  I  knowed  they 
was  but  one  more  meal  to  be  tuck  by  your  uncle 
Hi,  I'd  say  l  pole  beans  '  ever'  time !  Now  some 
folks  don't  like  'em  shellin'  out.  If  yous  don't, 


258  STORK'S   NEST 

take  note  of  them  sliced  tomatoes  and  onions. 
Yous  kin  hev'  sugar  on  'em,  or  vinegar  on  'em 
or  jest  tek  'em  as  God  intended.  Ben,  can  Mrs. 
Stork  do  better  than  this?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Benton  significantly. 
"  I've  never  seen  her  try !  " 

"  They're  close,"  said  Hiram,  "  they're  mighty 
near.  Well,  some  makes  money  an'  wears  it, 
some  makes  money  an'  eats  it,  an'  some  makes 
money  an'  lays  it  away  to  die  on.  But  I  want  a 
softer  bed  than  that  to  lie  on;  an'  I  reckon  I'll 
have  it,  too,"  he  added  with  a  grin. 

The  meal  progressed  with  a  hearty  cheer  which, 
for  a  time,  removed  the  young  man's  despondency. 
When  it  was  completed  he  said  to  Emma,  not 
without  an  effort  to  appear  cheerful:  "You 
promised  to  be  dessert,  you  know.  Come  and 
walk  about  the  place  with  me  once  more,  please." 

"  I've  got  to  clean  these  dishes,"  said  Emma 
promptly.  "  I'm  heated  to  it,  an'  I  don't  want  to 
be  heated  over." 

"Honey,"  said  Hiram,  "  it  bein'  your  birthday, 
take  a  holiday;  stack  up  the  plates  till  nightfall." 

"  That  would  n't  be  holiday  for  me,"  Emma 
declared  resolutely.  "  I  never  let  my  dishes  pile 
up ;  they're  just  like  a  fire — it  won't  do  to  let  'em 
get  ahead  of  you." 

"  Now,  hey,  for  the  front  yard !  "  cried  Hiram, 
mopping  his  streaming  face  with  his  bandana  and 
making  for  the  door.  Emma  was  left  alone  in 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OFER"    259 

the  kitchen.  It  was  a  good  while  before  she  joined 
the  others. 

Benton  did  not  again  proffer  his  request,  so  they 
sat  in  a  family  group  till  the  shadows  grew  late. 
Emma's  apparent  unwillingness  to  be  alone  with 
him,  coupled  with  his  recent  conversation  with  her 
grandfather,  forbade  any  further  attempt  on  Ben- 
ton's  part  to  seek  an  interview  aside.  Hiram  at 
last  fell  to  discoursing  about  the  best  remedy  to 
apply  to  young  pigs  when  suffering  from  those  mis- 
fortunes to  which  swine  is  heir. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  sprinkle  'em  now,"  he  added, 
rising.  "  Want  to  see  it  did?  " 

Benton  rose.  "  Ben,"  said  Emma  suddenly, 
"haven't  you  seen  that  pig-pen  often  enough?" 

"  So  I  have,"  said  Benton,  reseating  himself. 
Hiram  slowly  took  his  way  through  the  orchard 
and  the  young  man's  wish  was  gratified;  he  and 
Emma  were  alone.  And  yet  he  had  nothing  to 
say.  Perhaps  she  would  explain  her  strange  con- 
duct, her  reserve,  her  unfriendliness.  Indeed,  she 
had  seemed  to  wish  to  speak  to  him.  He  did  not 
look  at  her,  though  all  his  being  was  drawn  toward 
the  Grand  River  girl.  He  heard  her  turn  her 
head  several  times,  perhaps  to  seek  his  eyes,  then 
look  away.  Once,  there  was  a  sudden  catching  of 
the  breath  as  if  she  were  about  to  speak.  He  was 
eager  to  hear  her  rich  appealing  tones,  perhaps 
shyly  offering  some  explanation  of  her  coolness. 
He  sought  to  open  the  conversation,  but  was  bound 


260  STORK'S   NEST 

by  a  restraint  which  he  found  difficult  to  overcome. 
At  last  Emma  slowly  rose.  "  It  is  just  fine  this 
evening,  is  n't  it ! "  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  The 
tone  was  a  little  tremulous.  Benton  turned  and, 
as  he  rose,  looked  into  her  face.  She  met  his  eyes 
with  a  long  steady  gaze. 

"  I  like  September,"  he  said,  with  a  sad  smile. 

There  was  a  pause.  Emma  lifted  her  sunbonnet 
from  the  back  of  the  chair  and  prepared  to  put  it 
on.  "  These  strings  are  always  tangled ! "  she 
said.  "  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  to  have  something 
to  quarrel  at,  is  n't  it?"  She  put  on  the  bonnet. 
"  I  believe  I'll  go  look  at  the  pigs,"  she  said 
abruptly.  "  They're  awful  interestin',  sometimes. 
Want  to  go?" 

"  Won't  you  stay  with  me?  "  he  asked,  a  sudden 
pleading  in  his  tone. 

"There  don't  seem  to  be  anything  goin'  on 
here,"  remarked  Emma,  gazing  toward  the 
orchard. 

"Emmy,"  he  burst  forth  impulsively,  "won't 
you  tell  me  what  has  happened  to  make  you  treat 
me  so?  You  have  n't  been  the  same  to  me  since 
I  went  to  work  for  the  Storks.  We  were  good 
friends  once,  and  that  made  me  very  happy. 
Did  n't  you  care  to  have  me  for  your  friend?  May 
I  not  be  your  friend,  now?  " 

"  Of  course  we  are  friends,"  said  Emma,  but 
her  smile  was  not  wholly  free.  "  Le's  go,  as 
friends,  to  see  what  gran'pop  is  devising." 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OVER"    261 

"  No,"  said  Benton,  with  deep  disappointment, 
"I  will  stay  here."  She  tripped  away  and  he 
wandered  to  the  catalpa  tree.  He  saw  himself 
kneeling  there  in  the  twilight  and  felt  a  little  soft, 
bare  foot  in  his  hand.  Then  came  the  thought 
of  'Bije  and  of  his  cruel  blows  and  of  Emma's  de- 
fense of  his  cruelty.  So  the  holiday  came  to  an 
end  in  doubt  and  regret  and  longing. 

During  the  day  that  followed,  the  thought  of 
Emma  haunted  him  at  his  daily  toil  and  was  with 
him  in  his  dreams.  He  dreaded  'Bije's  return,  yet 
was  impatient  to  face  the  successful  suitor  once 
more.  As  no  letter  had  come  from  the  Golden 
Glory  Company,  he  was  convinced  that  his  mining 
shares  were  as  worthless  as  he  had  always  sup- 
posed. It  was  more  for  Hicky's  satisfaction  than 
from  any  uneasiness  of  his  own  that  he  had  hidden 
them  in  the  log  cabin  on  the  holiday  of  Emma's 
seventeenth  birthday. 

When  Sunday  came  he  prevailed  upon  Jim  to 
go  with  him  to  the  union  meeting  house.  They 
arrived  late,  but  all  the  men,  except  the  minister, 
were  perched  upon  the  fence  or  standing  in  line 
about  the  door,  discussing  crops  in  low  undertones 
and  occasionally  catching  a  few  sentences  of  the 
loud  sermon. 

Benton  entered,  and  every  head  turned  to  note 
his  appearance.  Emma  was  present,  but  on  the 
other  side  of  the  house.  She  looked  at  him 
gravely,  but  with  no  sign  of  pleasure  in  her  eyes. 


262  STORK'S   NEST 

Benton,  finding  himself  beside  Mrs.  Tucker- 
more,  murmured:  "I  don't  see  Hiram  Garrett." 

"Nuck,"  said  Mrs.  Tuckermore,  a  very  fleshy, 
red-faced  and  motherly  woman,  "  he  told  me 
t'other  day  he's  jest  wearin'  out  all  over." 

After  the  long  sermon  Emma  drove  home  be- 
hind old  'Thuze.  Benton  looked  about  the  house 
for  Jim,  but  did  not  discover  him  till  he  went  into 
the  weedy  yard.  Jim  sat  upon  the  broad  plank 
which  formed  the  top  of  the  fence,  his  knees  drawn 
up  and  his  face  lighted  by  a  wintry  smile.  Beside 
him,  upon  the  same  broad  plank,  perched  Liza 
Mary.  At  sight  of  Benton  he  slowly  descended, 
while  the  maiden,  with  a  prodigious  leap,  cleared 
a  patch  of  horse  weeds. 

"  Jim,"  said  Benton  severely,  "  did  n't  you  go 
in  to  hear  brother  Wilton  preach?" 

"  Nuck,"  said  Jim,  "  goin'  to  wait  till  I'm  older. 
Ain't  goin'  to  waste  my  young  springtime  of  life 
in  meetin'  houses.  If  I  got  religion,  'Bije  would 
take  it  out  of  me ;  so  I  jest  sot  along  of  Liza  Mary. 
I  done  fust  rate.  Marry  that  gal,  some  day !  " 

"Why,  Jim!  I  thought  you  meant  to  die," 
said  Benton  cruelly. 

"  Neither  would  n't  sa'prise  me,"  was  the  stoical 
rejoinder. 

A  few  days  later  Benton  was  in  the  field  help- 
ing to  cut  the  broom  corn,  when  he  was  approached 
by  his  employer:  "Ben,"  he  said  complainingly, 
"when  Hezzie  Whitlicks  died  I  thought  I  ought 


"WEARING    OUT    ALL    OVER"    263 

to  go.  We  had  n't  been  frien's,  him  livin',  and  I 
thought  we'd  git  along  better,  him  dead.  It  was 
hay  harvestin'.  Well,  I  went,  an'  a  rain  come  and 
sp'ilt  my  crap.  But  man  never  dies  when  con- 
venient, I've  learned  that.  An'  now  Emmy  hev' 
driv'  up  sayin'  her  gran' daddy  sent  for  yous,  an' 
how  he  air  mighty  low " 

Benton  hurried  to  the  house.  Emma  sat  in  her 
cart,  holding  the  lines.  She  looked  pathetically 
worn  and  tired,  with  dark  circles  under  her  eyes. 
Seldom  before  had  Benton  seen  her  except  as  an 
embodiment  of  perfect  health  and  self-command. 
She  spoke  in  a  low  hurried  voice : 

"  Hello,  Ben !    Can  you  go  right  now?  '* 

Benton  climbed  over  the  wheel.  "Yes;  is  he 
very  bad?" 

Emma  whipped  up  the  horse.  "  He  says  he  is 
just  wearin*  out  all  over.  The  doctor  does  n't  give 
him  many  days  to  live." 

"You  are  alone  there?" 

"  No,  Mrs.  Tuckermore  sleeps  with  me  and  her 
son  comes  every  day." 

"  Poor  uncle  Hi !  "  said  Benton  softly.  "  He 
was  always  so  good  to  me.  And  those  long,  pleas- 
ant evenings  we  spent  together.  I  think  of  them 
very  often." 

"  Oh!  "  exclaimed  Emma,  putting  her  hand  be- 
fore her  eyes.  "  You  drive,  Ben;  I  can't!  " 

Benton  took  the  lines  and  they  sped  on  in 
silence.  Her  grief  had  removed  all  restraint.  At 


264  STORK'S   NEST 

last  she  took  her  hand  from  her  eyes  and  said: 
"It  is  sweet  of  you  to  remember  those  evenings, 
Ben." 

"Those  are  the  only  evenings  I  have  enjoyed 
since  I  came,"  he  returned.  "How  could  I  for- 
get them?" 

She  opened  her  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  but  said 
nothing.  He  looked  at  her  curiously.  What 
words  had  she  checked? 

"  Emmy,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  did  you  find  them 
happy  evenings,  too?" 

Emma  answered  slowly:  "  I  was  so  busy,  then, 
trying  to  be  a  Person." 

For  some  reason  the  words  brought  before  Ben- 
ton  the  face  of  'Bije.  He  did  not  pursue  the  con- 
versation. They  reached  the  ford;  the  river  was 
low  and  showed  that  cattle  had  been  driven  back 
and  forth  since  the  last  rain. 

Suddenly  Emma  said,  as  the  wheels  splashed  in 
the  water:  "Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we 
were  here  together?" 

"  I  remember,"  said  Benton,  not  meeting  her 
glance. 

"  You  don't  enjoy  remembering,"  she  remarked 
with  quiet  dignity. 

"  Everything  is  so  different  since  then,"  said 
Benton.  "  Since  that  Sunday  in  the  parlor,  Emmy, 
I  can't  help  thinking  about  you  all  the  time;  but, 
no,  I  do  not  enjoy  remembering;  it  keeps  me  mis- 
erable, Emmy." 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OFER"    265 

Emmy  looked  at  him  fixedly  and  answered:  "I 
don't  enjoy  remembering  this  ford,  either,  Ben, 
for  it  brings  to  my  mind  the  Sunday  you  did  not 
come,  when  you  wrote  that  you  would." 

"That  Sunday!"  cried  Benton,  astonished. 
"  But,  Emmy,  don't  you  remember  that  heavy  rain 
of  the  night  before?  It  made  the  crossing  danger- 
ous; after  our  experience  on  it,  you  surely  did  n't 
expect  me !  " 

u'Bije  could  come,"  said  Emma.  "Yes,  Ben, 
I  did  expect  you  'cause  you'd  said  you  were  comin'. 
An'  when  you'd  said  that,  I  did  n't  believe  nothin' 
could  hinder  you.  An'  I  told  'Bije  you'd  be  here, 
but  he  laughed.  He  said  you  was  afraid.  He 
plagued  me  awfully  about  it,  me  standin'  up  for 
you.  That's  why  I  don't  enjoy  rememberin'  the 
ford.  Mebby  you've  got  as  good  a  reason;  I 
don't  know." 

Benton,  humiliated  and  embarrassed,  did  not 
reply.  They  drove  on  with  no  relief  to  his  feelings 
until  the  log  cabin  came  in  sight.  He  felt  how 
futile  it  would  have  proved  to  make  explanations 
or  apologies.  Emma  had  an  answer  for  every- 
thing— "  'Bije  could  come!  "  That  gave  the  key 
to  her  conduct  of  the  past  weeks.  It  told  why  her 
flowers  had  ceased  to  visit  him  and  why  his  offer- 
ing had  been  rejected.  He  found  himself  put  in 
the  wrong,  and  it  made  him  humble  and  ashamed. 

"  Let  me  out  here,"  said  Emma,  as  they  drew 
up  at  the  stile-block,  "  and  you  can  take  'Thuze  to 


266  STORK'S   NEST 

the  barn  and  unhitch.     I'll  tell  gran'pop  youVe 


come." 


Her  voice  was  quiet  and  even  friendly,  but  he 
felt  something  lacking.  He  knew  her  standards 
of  life  were  different  from  his  and  that  personal 
bravery,  even  rash  hardihood,  would  more  surely 
gain  her  admiration  than  calm  endurance.  "  'Bije 
could  come,"  Benton  had  not  dared;  that  is  how 
she  regarded  the  situation.  With  a  depressed 
heart  Benton  saw  the  girl  go  to  the  house;  but  he 
had  taken  the  wisest  course  possible,  could  he  have 
known;  he  had  not  spoken  one  word  in  defense. 
When  'Thuze  had  been  fed  and  the  cart  put  away, 
he  hurried  through  the  orchard  toward  the  yard. 
He  was  met  by  Mrs.  Tuckermore  near  the  cabin. 

Benton  asked  in  a  low  voice:  "How  is  he 
now?" 

Mrs.  Tuckermore  shook  her  sympathetic  head: 
"  He's  wearin'  out  all  over,  he  says.  Walk  in.  I 
guess  yous  know  the  way.  Tell  Emmy  I  want  her ; 
uncle  Hi  wants  yous  alone  a  spell." 

Benton  entered  the  front  room  and  sent  Emma 
to  her  neighbor.  The  room  was  just  as  the  young 
man  had  left  it,  the  ladder,  the  box,  even  the  sun- 
light which  fell  a  little  way  across  the  bare  floor. 
But  on  the  old  trapper's  face  there  was  a  change. 
Benton  felt  the  tears  spring  to  his  eyes.  "  Here 
I  am,"  he  said,  taking  the  dry,  hard  hand,  and 
bending  over  the  prostrate  form;  "how  do  you 
feel?" 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OVER"    267 

"  I'm  wearin'  out  all  over,  son,"  said  Hiram 
in  a  far  fainter  voice  than  the  other  had  heard  him 
use.  "  I'm  throwin'  overboard  ever'thin'  that 
hampers  a  man ;  my  pipe  has  went  an'  my  Ole  Miz- 
zoury  Mule  is  give  away  to  Tobe  Tuckermore  for 
him  to  chaw  on  an'  think  of  his  uncle  Hi.  I'll 
tell  yous  why  I  sent  for  yous.  Emmy  out  o' 
hearin'?" 

Benton  assured  him  that  they  were  quite  alone. 

"  I  want  yous  to  write  to  Emmy's  uncle  on  her 
ma's  side.  Yous  air  the  only  man  I  could  ask, 
Ben.  Tell  him  about  her,  how  sweet  an'  lovin' 
she  is,  with  a  heart  of  gold  an'  a  mind  of  sunshine. 
Make  him  interested  in  her;  work  on  him,  son. 
You'll  know  what  to  put  in.  But  what's  more  to 
the  p'int,  you'll  know  what  to  leave  out.  Knowin' 
what  to  leave  out  is  the  main  secret  of  letter  writin' 
an'  public  speakin' ;  that's  how  I  place  it,  son." 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you  and  for  her,"  said 
Benton.  "What  is  his  address?" 

"William  Selton  is  his  name;  not  Bill,  son,  but 
William.  He  owns  a  big  drug  store  thar,  so  jest 
address  it  to  his  drug  store,  St.  Louis,  Mo.  He'll 
git  it.  Onct  I  took  and  writ  him  a  few  lines  an' 
was  off  to  Laclede  Station  with  it,  when  here  comes 
Emmy  tearin'  an'  rearm'  after  me,  on  the  scent, 
by  hook  or  crook.  She  says,  'That  letter  don't 
go ! '  An'  it  never,  nuther !  She  was  plumb  out- 
done, being  that  independent  an'  high-strung  an' 
proud.  But  they  ain't  nothin'  practical  in  a 


268  STORK'S    NEST 

woman's  pride;  it  jest  all  goes  to  yeast  with  no 
dough  to  work  on.  So  don't  let  her  know  youVe 
wrote  an1,  when  she  finds  out,  I'll  be  gone  an'  she 
won't  blame  me,  then.  Seems  kind  o'  under- 
handed to  take  advantage  of  her  by  dodgin'  be- 
hind the  tombstone,  so  to  say,  but  it's  for  her 
good.  Better  call  her  now  or  she'll  git  suspicionin' 
her  ole  no-'count  gran'pop." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Garrett,"  said  Benton,  distressed, 
"  don't  think  of  leaving  Emma  now;  she  needs  you 
more  than  ever  in  her  life  before !  " 

"  Why,  if  it  laid  with  me,  Ben,  I  would  n't  insist 
on  leavin'  Emmy;  I'd  stan'  to  her,  sure.  But  your 
uncle  Hi,  which  have  ketched  skunks  an'  moles 
an*  foxes  an'  other  beastes  lo!  these  many  year, 
has  got  ketched  in  a  trap  hisself,  at  last,  an'  he 
can't  break  the  chain;  that's  how  I  place  it.  I 
reckon  it  wa'n't  intended.  An'  I  am  sort  o'  recon- 
ciled when  I  reflect  that  she's  goin'  to  be  married 
soon  to  a  strong,  able-bodied  man  with  a  fat  farm 
to  his  back." 

"  But  how  can  you  think  she'll  be  happy  with 
the  sort  of  a  person  'Bije  is?  Don't  you  know 
farms  and  cattle  don't  make  girls  happy?  " 

"  Son,  I  know  this:  it  air  a  mighty  big  rise  from 
skunks  to  cattle.  An'  besides,  when  that  St.  Louis 
uncle  comes,  he  kin  eye  'Bije  over  an'  see  how  he 
likes  the  prospect.  You  write  to  him  immediate; 
an'  now  call  Emmy." 

Emma  was  called  and  Mrs.  Tuckermore  entered 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OVER"    269 

with  her.  Emma  went  to  the  bedside  and,  taking 
the  chair  Benton  had  just  vacated,  put  her  arm 
about  the  wasted  form.  "  You  beautiful  ole  gran'- 
pop,"  she  said  softly;  "  ain't  you  goin'  to  live  for 
your  Emmy?  " 

"  I'm  goin'  to  do  my  best,  honey,"  said  the  old 
man,  lifting  a  bony  hand  to  stroke  her  golden  locks, 
"  but  when  a  man  wears  out  all  over,  they's  no 
place  to  fasten  new  strength  on.  Thar  comes  a 
time,  which  it  have  about  come  to  ole  Hi,  I  do 
expect,  when  the  rankest  Me  that  was  ever  growed 
can't  reach  the  in'ardness  of  trouble.  Ben,  you's 
see  that  thar  book,  half  way  up  the  ladder?  " 

Benton  hastened  to  take  it  from  the  step  saying: 
"  It  is  the  Bible  I  left  you." 

"  Yap.  Emmy  an'  me "  His  voice  faltered. 

Emmy  bowed  her  head  over  him  caressingly. 

"  Emmy  an'  me  has  tried  to  find  our  way  in  it. 
Now  honey,  yous  must  n't  mind !  I  am  a  ole  man, 
an'  all  the  hard  work  they  was  in  me  has  been  used 
up,  an'  more  too !  What  '11  Ben  think  of  yous,  a 

big  strong  gal  like  my  Emmy "  Hiram  cleared 

his  throat  and  continued:  "As  I  were  sayin',  I 
sot  out  travelin'  in  that  Bible,  but  I  had  waited  too 
long  to  learn  the  road.  I  knowed  what  I  was 
lookin'  for,  an'  Emmy  knowed,  an'  even  Mrs. 
Tuckermore  got  some  inklin'  of  it,  but  they  did  n't 
seem  to  be  no  paths  cut  to  the  place.  I'll  tell  yous 
what  we  wanted  to  find;  we  wanted  to  read  about 
Jesus,  like  yous  used  to  read, — ever'thin'  about 


2yo  STORK'S   NEST 

Jesus;  we  did  n't  want  nothin'  else:  Whar  He  was 
born;  an'  whar  He  went  off  by  hisself  to  sorrow; 
an'  whar  they  killed  'im;  an'  He  died,  an'  was 
buried,  but  He  riz  ag'in — an'  Mrs.  Tuckermore 
says  He  did  n't " 

"  My  man  have  always  held  out  that  He 
did  n't,"  Mrs.  Tuckermore  said  apologetically.  "  I 
hain't  no  real  idees  on  the  subjec'.  My  man,  he 
says  Jesus  was  jest  a  historical  allegory,  like." 

"  Ben  kin  show  yous  the  place  whar  He  riz," 
said  Hiram,  "  I  guess  that  '11  settle  it.  As  I  say, 
son,  me  V  Emmy  has  tried  to  find  whar  Jesus  is 
told  about.  We  laid  our  traps  all  around,  but  we 
did  n't  ketch  nothin'.  So  I  take  an'  sot  out  from 
the  word  go  at  the  fust  page;  I  told  Emmy  I'd  jest 
hold  my  course  through  thick  an'  thin.  Got 
mighty  thick,  too,  what  with  more  names  to  be 
cleared  out  of  the  way  than  bresh  out  o'  the  forest. 
Then  Emmy  taken  a  hand.  Onct  I  told  her  that 
we  never  would  git  the  Tabernacle  builded,  but 
we  come  out  all  right,  an'  thar  wasn't  nothin'  on 
the  other  side." 

"  I  wish  I  had  been  here ! "  Benton  exclaimed. 

"  Well,  we'll  use  yous  while  we  have  yous. 
Jest  turn  to  the  manger  an'  go  to  whar  He  was 
livin'  amongst  poor,  onery  folks — an'  prayin'  to 
Hisself — an'  was  in  the  Garden — an'  was  took,  but 
would  n't  let  nobody  do  nothin'  for  Him ;  an'  then 
He  died,  his  mother  standin'  thar  lookin'  up  so 
wistful  An'  then  about  Him  an'  Mary  an'  His 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OVER"    271 

shinin'  face.  An'  Mrs.  Tuckermore,  don't  yous 
budge  from  this  room! " 

Benton  drew  his  chair  beside  Emma  and  opened 
the  book. 

"  Emmy,"  said  Hiram,  "  jest  look  at  that,  would 
yous !  He  goes  at  it  like  a  ole  hunter  that  knows 
all  the  ole  stompin'  grounds.  Look  a-thar !  How 
on  airth  would  we  ever  have  fit  our  way  that 
fur?  It's  plumb  over  to  the  other  eend  of  the 
book." 

Benton  began  to  read:  "Now  when  Jesus  was 
born  in  Bethlehem  of  Judea  in  the  days  of  Herod 
the  King,  behold " 

Hiram  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of  profound  content. 
"  A-a-a-ah !  that's  the  place !  No  Hittites  thar, 
Emmy!  Go  on,  Ben.  I  would  jest  remark  that 
one  word  thar  is  the  softest  word  to  me  an'  the 
meanin'est  I  ever  knowed.  I  mean  *  Behold.'  It 
jest  seem  to  be  a  sort  of  music  to  the  rest.  Begin 
thar  ag'in." 

"  *  Behold  there  came  wise  men  from  the  east 
to  Jerusalem  saying,  Where  is  He  that  is  born  King 
of  the  Jews?'"  . 

"  Seems  like  the  wiser  a  man  is,  the  less  he 
knows  about  Jesus,"  Hiram  remarked.  He  closed 
his  eyes  while  Emma  rested  her  head  upon  the 
pillow,  her  hair  mingling  with  the  gray,  his  hand 
clasped  in  hers.  Benton  read  on  and  on,  selecting, 
repeating,  till  it  grew  too  dark  to  see.  The  part- 
ing was  very  quiet  and  grave.  Mrs.  Tuckermore's 


272  STORK'S   NEST 

son  took  Benton  to  Stork's  Nest.  He  promised 
to  come  again  Sunday. 

"  It's  all  right,  Ben,"  said  Silas  the  next  Sun- 
day as  the  young  man  was  preparing  to  set  forth 
afoot,  "  for  yous  to  go  t'  see  Hiram  Garrett.  He's 
ole,  an'  then  besides  he's  a  man.  But  jest  remem- 
ber 'Bije  when  thar.  That's  all." 

The  advice  was  not  needed;  to  think  of  Emma 
was  to  remember  'Bije.  When  he  reached  the 
cabin  he  found  Hiram  more  feeble,  his  voice 
fainter,  his  gestures  more  languid.  The  end  was 
close  at  hand.  Mrs.  Tuckermore  was  at  church 
when  the  young  man  arrived.  Hiram  and  Emma 
were  alone.  As  they  sat  together  something  of 
the  old  comradeship  was  felt,  but  every  thought 
and  emotion  was  deepened  and  sobered  by  the 
presence  of  the  old  trapper's  fading  eyes.  Benton 
read  to  him  till  the  aged  lids  drooped  and  a  slum- 
ber seemed  to  have  come.  But  suddenly  Hiram 
said: 

"  Meetin'  must  be  'most  out,  now.  I  wish  you'd 
go  an'  see  if  you  kin  see  anythin'  of  ole  'Thuze 
comin'  over  the  hill.  I  won't  never  see  that  sight 
ag'in." 

Benton  went  out  and  walked  to  the  fence,  star- 
ing toward  the  distant  road  intently.  Nothing  was 
to  be  seen  moving  between  the  hedges,.  He  had 
paused  under  the  catalpa  tree.  He  reached  up 
absently  and  pulled  down  a  bough  till  it  rested 
upon  his  shoulder.  The  sun  was  golden  on  the 


"WEARING   OUT   ALL    OVER"    273 

broom  corn  and  silver  on  the  pond.  The  wood 
stood  hushed,  each  leaf  reaching  out  as  if  strain- 
ing to  catch  the  wandering  breeze  which  did  not 
come.  All  the  world  was  silent  save  a  redbird 
which,  on  a  topmost  twig,  sang  proudly  and  with- 
out a  pause,  filling  his  world,  from  the  hollows  of 
the  meadows,  where  the  blue  grass  stood  heavy  in 
seed,  to  the  hills  beyond  the  orchard,  with  sweetest 
melody. 

Benton  was  suddenly  startled  by  feeling  the 
bough  shake  under  his  shoulder.  He  turned  and 
found  Emma  standing  beside  him,  ankle  deep  in 
the  blue  grass. 

"  Is  n't  it  sweet?  "  said  Emma,  nodding  toward 
the  redbird.  "  He  fills  his  world  with  music.  Do 
you?  But  no  person  does,  only  a  bird.  See  her 
comin'  ?  " 

"No,  Emmy.     Is  your  grandfather  asleep?" 

Emma  nodded.  uBen,  is  n't  he  beautiful?  Did 
you  ever  know  anything  so  cheerful  an'  sweet  at 
such  a  time?  He  just  keeps  up  my  courage.  That's 
why  he's  so  brave — for  my  sake — oh,  I  know  my 
gran'pop!  An'  I  have  to  seem  cheerful,  he'd  be 
so  disappointed  not  to  think  he  was  helpin'  me. 
He's  given  all  his  life  for  me,  toil  an'  trouble  an' 
everythin'.  An'  now  he  hates  to  die  just  because 
he  knows  it's  about  to  break  my  heart." 

Her  voice  faltered  and  she  put  both  hands  be- 
fore her  face  and  leaned  on  the  far  end  of  the 
bough  as  Benton  held  it  down  upon  his  shoulder. 


274  STORK'S   NEST 

He  looked  at  her  while  his  heart  thrilled  with  un- 
utterable sympathy. 

At  last  she  wiped  the  tears  away  and  looked  up 
at  him.  His  face  told  her  that  he,  too,  had  suf- 
fered and  was  suffering.  "  I  must  be  brave,"  she 
said,  "  until  it  won't  matter;  then  I'll  just  be  my- 
self, and  cry.  Ben " 

Benton  did  not  reply,  but  his  eyes  met  hers  and 
in  them  was  a  pleading,  a  mute  defense,  which  she 
understood.  "  I  know  what  you're  thinkin',"  she 
said  abruptly,  "  but  you  tell  me,  Ben." 

Benton  answered  slowly:  "  'Bije  could  come!  " 

"  Don't  you  ever  think  about  that  again,  Ben. 
I  ought  n't  said  it.  An'  what  if  he  did  come?  It 
was  n't  anything  but  'Bije.  An'  I  believe  if  I 
needed  you  an'  you  knew  it,  you'd  come  across  the 
ford,  no  matter  how  dangerous  it  was." 

"  I  would;  indeed,  I  would;  but  there's  no  use 
to  say  so,"  Benton  checked  himself.  "  Only 
words " 

"  But  they're  your  words,  Ben,"  said  Emma 
gently.  "  I  did  you  wrong.  I'm  afraid  I've 
made  you  feel  bad.  I  was  so  angry, — oh,  just 
mad  because  you  did  n't  keep  your  word!  I 
thought  I'd  never  get  over  it.  But  I  have.  An' 
everythin'  is  the  same  as  before  that  Sunday  when 
I  waited,  an'  waited,  an'  you — But  there  was  such  a 
rain'  and  you  could  n't  know  'Bije  was  coming, 
could  you?  " 

"  If  I  had  only  known,  Emmy!  " 


"WEARING    OUT   ALL    OVER"    275 

"  Well,  don't  you  bother,  Ben,  any  more.  But 
I  must  go  back;  gran'pop  might  wake  up.  And 
there's  one  more  thing  I'd  like  for  you  to  know. 
It's  about  'Bije.  Gran'pop  thinks  I'm  goin'  to 
marry  him  and  that  keeps  him  quiet.  I'm  not 
saying  anything." 

"  But  have  n't  you  promised?  "  cried  Benton, 
his  heart  ceasing  to  beat.  "  Is  n't  he  building  a 
house  for  you?  " 

"  'Bije  has  gone  off  on  one  of  his  trips,"  re- 
turned Emma.  "  House  nothin' !  I  got  a  letter 
from  him  yesterday  and  he  had  n't  begun  on  it. 
No,  I  did  n't  promise — not  so  that  I  could  n't  get 
out  of  it.  It  was  n't  dead  wood.  Between  you 
an'  me,  I  don't  as  near  think  I  will  as  I  think  I 
won't!" 

As  the  gray  stars  shone  up  at  him,  a  smile  crept 
about  the  mouth  and  shed  its  light  over  cheek  and 
brow,  and  lost  itself  in  the  brighter  glory  of  her 
hair.  At  that  moment  a  feeble  moan  came  from 
the  cabin  door. 

"  Oh,  Ben !  "  whispered  Emma,  the  light  van- 
ishing, "  what  will  become  of  me?  " 

She  drooped  toward  him,  and  the  catalpa  bough, 
released,  shot  upward  in  the  warm,  softened  Sep- 
tember air.  His  arm  was  about  her  and  her  cheek 
upon  his  shoulder,  as  when  they  were  borne  down 
Grand  River  on  the  flood;  and  just  as  innocent  as 
then,  with  just  as  little  thought  of  love  or  passion, 
she  rested  there  a  moment,  then  raised  her  pale, 


276  STORK'S   NEST 

weary  face,  and  looked  straight  into  his  eyes.  But 
it  was  not  the  same  with  Benton  as  on  that  day  of 
storm  and  flood.  For  the  love  which  had  been  so 
long  hidden  in  his  breast  and  which  he  had  told 
himself  must  never  be  revealed,  with  one  quick  rush 
bore  down  the  barriers.  His  arm  trembled  with 
sudden  freedom  and  drew  her  close,  while  his  lips 
were  pressed  to  hers  in  a  passionate  kiss  which 
sent  the  pale  face  flaming,  and  closed  the  long 
lashes.  Ah!  never  again  were  those  gray  orbs  to 
look  into  his  brown  depths  with  the  old,  careless, 
unconscious  strength  of  girlhood's  freedom.  But 
something  fairer  than  girlhood's  freedom,  and  just 
as  sacred,  burned  in  her  cheeks  and  on  her  brow  as 
she  hurried  to  the  house ;  for  the  Prince  had  come, 
and  Sleeping  Beauty  was  awake  at  last.  The 
Prince  was  left  standing  under  the  catalpa,  his  eyes 
upon  the  distant  road  as  it  climbed  between  the 
hedges.  But  if  old  'Thuze  had  then  appeared, 
drawing  the  portly  Mrs.  Tuckermore,  Benton 
would  have  been  unconscious  of  the  approach,  as 
he  was  now  unconscious  of  road,  wood,  redbird, 
sky — everything  except  Emmy. 


XVII 
UNCLE  HI'S  LAST  CHARGE 

BENTON  CABOT  had  made  no  progress  in 
his  discoveries  of  'Bije's  secrets,  if,  indeed, 
that  cold,  self-centered  man  had  secrets 
worthy  of  discovery.  The  chamber  where  he  slept 
and  which  Emma  had  named  the  Snake  Room  was 
now  seldom  closed  when  the  young  man  passed 
through  the  hall.  He  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  a  coffin  was  kept  there  to  intimidate  Jim  Whit- 
licks  and  that  the  orphan  was  purposely  given  a 
glimpse  of  it  to  keep  him  in  subjection.  Concern- 
ing the  ghost  he  was  still  in  doubt  but,  in  lieu  of 
a  better  explanation,  held  to  his  theory  of  a  fugi- 
tive criminal  who  had  come  under  'Bije's  power. 
He  was  resolved  to  demand  an  explanation,  should 
he  ever  hear  sounds  again  issue  from  the  apart- 
ment while  the  master  was  away  and,  if  he  were 
denied,  to  force  the  door;  for  he  felt  none  of  that 
timidity  which  a  student's  life  and  delicate  health 
had  fostered.  Now,  strong  and  stout  of  heart, 
there  was  nothing  he  feared  save  his  love  of 
Emma. 

For  he  loved  Emma  and  he  knew  that  he  loved 
her;  and,  loving  her,  he  felt  that  she  could  never 

277 


278  STORK'S   NEST 

be  his  wife;  all  his  training  and  instincts  for  refine- 
ment and  education  cried  out  against  it.  His 
associates  at  home,  his  friends,  the  memory  of  his 
father's  pride,  the  dignity  of  the  family  name  and 
his  own  ambitions  stood,  as  with  flaming  sword, 
between  him  and  love's  fair  Eden.  He  pictured 
to  himself  the  sensation  that  would  be  produced 
in  Blair  City  society  by  the  introduction  of  the 
illiterate  girl  of  the  backwoods,  with  her  bad  gram- 
mar, her  faulty  pronunciation  and  her  ignorance 
of  social  conventions.  And  there  was  her  grand- 
father, whose  manner  of  obtaining  a  livelihood 
could  hardly  be  seriously  regarded  by  his  friends. 
No — no,  it  could  never  be ! 

But  he  wondered  if  she  could  love  him.  If 
everything  were  different,  if  he  were  free  to  woo, 
would  she  return  his  love?  Could  the  light  in  her 
eyes  deepen  and  the  color  in  her  cheeks  grow 
brighter  and  her  bosom  throb  faster  at  his  ap- 
proach? He  would  like  to  know.  He  must 
know!  Nay,  had  he  not  learned  she  was  no 
longer  a  child?  At  seventeen  these  children  of 
the  woods  were  women.  And  he  had  kissed  her; 
his  lips  and  hers  had  met  beneath  the  silent  catalpa. 
What  a  moment!  Old  Time  had  paused  to  lean 
upon  his  scythe;  the  world  had  stood  still.  It  was 
love's  first  kiss.  But  she!  No,  she  had  been 
thinking  of  her  grandfather;  she  had  leaned  to- 
ward him  for  comfort,  tears  in  her  eyes.  That 
was  all.  All?  She  did  not  think  she  would 


UNCLE   HI'S   LAST    CHARGE      279 

marry  'Bije,  in  spite  of  that  Sunday  afternoon. 
Why? 

"  I  must  go  away,"  thought  Benton.  "  I  must 
go  back  to  Blair  City,  back  to  my  real  life.  Time 
for  holidays  to  end!  And  Emmy,  I  must  n't  see 
her  again — I  mean,  alone.  I  mean — not  for  long 
— for  very  long.  I  wonder  if  she  will  care?  " 

No  wonder  Benton  gave  little  thought  to  the 
ghost!  He  had  a  ghost  all  of  his  own,  a  ghost 
to  haunt  him  day  and  night.  It  was,  indeed,  the 
ghost  of  what  he  had  been.  For  he  was  changed 
more  than  he  knew,  and  those  ambitions  which 
had  led  him  in  the  past  and  which  he  thought  still 
guided  him,  were  not  the  same. 

"  I  wish  'Bije  would  come  home,"  said  Silas 
to  his  wife;  "here's  October  on  hands  an'  the 
cattle  to  be  shipped  in  a  few  days  an'  Ben  goin' 
over  thar  to  Emmy's  so  constant !  " 

"  Over  to  uncle  Hi's,  more  like,"  snapped  Mrs. 
Stork. 

"Uncle  Hi's  foot!"  said  Silas,  who  had  lost 
his  usual  urbanity.  "  I  tell  yous  I  don't  like  it. 
Reckon  Ben  goes  to  wait  on  a  ole  man  like  that 
when  boys  is  goin'  off  from  thar  prodigal  fathers 
ever'  day,  as  Scriptur'  says?  Man  don't  cleave 
unto  man;  thar's  neither  reason  nor  Bible  fur  it. 
An'  when  thar's  neither  reason  nor  Bible  fur  a 
thing  what  are  yous  to  do?  Why,  write  to  'Bije! 
An'  I'll  do  it  to-day.  An'  he'll  come,  an'  sich  a 
high  strike  as  they'll  be  here  an'  sich  a  log  rollin' 


280  STORK'S   NEST 

up  Salt  River,  I  guess  yous  never  see !  If  hide  or 
hair  is  left  o'  Ben  it  won't  be  in  this  quarter  sec- 
tion. Is  they  any  ink  on  this  here  place?  " 

"  Don't  ask  a  jail-woman  about  ink,"  snarled 
Mrs.  Stork. 

Silas  caught  sight  of  Jim  passing  the  window 
and  called  to  him:  "  Hey!  is  thar  any  ink  on  the 
place,  Jim?  Quit  a-spillin'  that  water,  Jim!  " 

"They's  plenty  of  water,"  said  Jim,  who  was 
bearing  a  pail. 

"  Don't  keer,  brother,"  rejoined  Silas  jovially. 
"  Jest  seein'  a  drop  of  water  wasted  makes  me 
think  that  man  could  have  a  hull  ocean  if  he'd  only 
save  up,  save  up !  Any  ink  on  the  place?  " 

Jim  paused  on  one  leg,  and  scratched  it  with  the 
toes  of  his  other  foot. 

"Stork,  Stork!"  snarled  the  mistress,  wrin- 
kling her  hooked  nose  contemptuously. 

"  Well,"  said  Jim  slowly,  "  they's  a  pa-a-ale, 
sort  o'  light  gre-e-een  fluid  in  a  ole  white  stone 
bottle  in  my  box  o'  medicines  which  I  think  it  is 
ink,  for  it  don't  taste  like  nothin'  else  to  me,  an'  I 
know  it  hain't  no  virtues  for  anythin'  else." 

Silas  said,  as  he  started  toward  the  stairs,  "  I 
wonder  yous  ain't  dead,  Jim !  " 

Jim  called  back  as  he  went  toward  the  field: 
"  I  air  goin'  to  be,  one  day,  now  yous  mark  it!  " 

Silas  wrote  his  letter  in  urgent  terms  and  as  he 
sealed  it,  he  espied,  from  an  upstairs  window,  old 
'Thuze  slowly  coming  up  the  road. 


UNCLE   HI'S   LAST    CHARGE      281 

"  This  thing  has  got  to  be  stopped,"  muttered 
the  farmer.  "  If  it  goes  on,  'Bije  will  kill  Ben 
an'  me,  too,  which  is  more  to  the  p'int."  He 
hurried  downstairs. 

"Crishy,  honey,"  he  said  speaking  rapidly, 
"  go  down  pasture  an'  meet  Emmy  an'  hold  her 
thar  till  I  can  get  Ben  off  on  another  road. 
Hasten,  honey,  hasten !  " 

"  I  hain't  a-goin'  to  do  it,"  said  his  wife,  with 
spirit,  "  an'  I  won't  be  the  only  *  honey  '  that  is  ever 
named  on  this  place  except  what  is  took  to  be  sold 
— an'  us  never  gittin'  a  taste.  So  don't  yous  call 
me  that  ag'in,  Si  Stork!  " 

u  Crishy,  honey,"  said  Silas  calm  and  smiling, 
"  I  hold  here  a  letter  to  'Bije.  Coin'  t'  have  it 
mailed  to-day.  You've  got  to  stop  Emmy  down 
thar,  by  hook  or  crook.  They's  been  too  much 
meetin'  aroun'  uncle  Hi's  bedside.  If  you  don't 
go  this  minute  I'll  rip  open  this  envelop,  if  I  bu'st 
the  stamp,  an'  I'll  add  a  postscrip'  that  won't  do 
yous  no  good,  honey !  " 

Mrs.  Stork  snatched  her  sunbonnet  vindictively, 
and  hurried  away  upon  her  errand.  Silas  leaped 
upon  his  horse,  which  stood  saddled  and  fastened 
to  a  tree,  and  galloped  to  the  field  where  Benton 
and  Jim  were  at  work. 

"  Ben,"  said  Silas,  somewhat  flustered,  "  lay  by 
your  corn-knife;  I've  got  a  job  to  send  yous 
on.  I  want  yous  to  ride  over  to  Laclede  Station, 
if  you'll  be  so  kind,  an'  pay  Hicky  Price  for 


282  STORK'S   NEST 

yous  an'  Emmy's  an'  Jim's  board  that  night  you- 
all  stayed  on  his  farm,  an'  for  rowin'  you-all  in  his 
skift.  Hicky,  if  he  hain't  thar,  his  pard  is,  but 
I've  heerd  he's  thar.  I  want  yous  to  ketch  'im. 
So  light  out  right  now,  if  yous  hain't  no  engage- 
ments that  stan'  in  the  way.  An'  mail  this  letter 
for  me." 

Benton  was  so  astonished  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  control  his  face. 

*  Yous  thought  me  a  sponger,"  said  Silas 
kindly.  He  had  recovered  his  poise.  l  Yous 
an'  Hicky  Price  both  thought  me  a  double  close- 
fisted.  But  Si  Stork  is  a  man  which  pays  as  he 
goes,  an'  which  gits  paid  as  he  stays."  Silas 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew  forth  six 
new  silver  dollars.  "  I  believe  in  the  open  hand. 
Why  should  man  hoard  up  the  wealth  which  a 
all-sufficient  Providence  hev'  slipped  into  his 
pocket?  How  come  this  wealth  in  my  pocket? 
Man  was  not  born  with  wealth,  man  is  not  born 
with  pockets.  He  may  be  with  hair,  though  like 
'nough,  not.  But  as  to  say  pockets,  no  sir-ee. 
Then  why  hoard  up?  Take  it,  Ben,  an'  tell 
Hicky  Price  if  they's  any  change  comin',  you're 
comin'  back  an'  '11  bring  it  with  yous.  Hasten 
now,  brother,  make  hot  tracks;  be  a  swift 
gentleman !  " 

As  Benton  rode  through  the  wood  he  marveled 
over  this  strange  commission.  Why  should  Silas 
Stork,  a  confirmed  miser,  stop  him  in  the  midst  of 


UNCLE   HI'S   LAST    CHARGE      283 

his  work  for  the  purpose  of  paying  a  debt  long 
since  repudiated?  The  generosity  of  the  six 
dollars  seemed  uncanny.  The  young  man  half 
expected  to  see  "  the  ghost "  start  up  before  him. 
Still  he  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  go  to  Laclede 
Station. 

At  last  he  rode  up  before  the  store  where 
Emma  had  come  to  do  her  u  tradin',"  paying  for 
everything  with  her  eggs.  That  seemed  long 
ago.  In  the  store,  seated  in  a  circle  about  a  great 
brown  cuspidor,  were  five  or  six  countrymen 
who  stared  at  Benton  with  frank  curiosity.  Be- 
hind the  counter  were  Hicky  Price  and  his 
partner. 

"  Well !  good  gracious  alive !  "  cried  Hicky  in 
his  thin  voice  as  he  caught  sight  of  Benton,  "  if 
here  ain't  a  bird  from  the  Stork's  Nest !  Howdy, 
Ben!  How're  yous?  How're  you  feelin'?" 

"  Fine,"  said  Benton,  grasping  his  hand  and 
deriving  pleasure  from  the  hearty  welcome  shining 
on  the  almost  blood-red  face  of  his  friend. 
Hicky  grasped  his  hay-colored  mustache  and 
looked  the  other  over  critically. 

"  Ben,  I'm  glad  to  see  yous,  shore!  "  he  said 
leaping  over  the  counter.  "  How  air  yous,  any- 
way?" 

"  First  rate,"  Benton  reassured  him. 

"  Now  hev'  Taylor  thar  wait  on  yous;  "  Hicky 
waved  toward  his  partner.  "  I  don't  know  nothin' 
about  the  handin'  out  part  of  this  job." 


284  STORK'S   NEST 

"  I  have  n't  come  to  buy  anything,"  said  Ben- 
ton,  leading  Hicky  aside.  "  I'm  just  on  my  way 
to  the  post  office.  Silas  sent  me  over  to  pay  you 
for  our  board  at  your  house,  the  night  of  the 
flood." 

"Oh  say!"  cried  Hicky  suspiciously,  "I'm 
from  Mizzoury,  you  know." 

"  I  have  six  dollars  for  you,"  Benton  de- 
clared. 

Hicky  gnawed  at  his  mustache  and  responded: 
"  I  guess  you'll  hev'  to  show  me !  " 

Benton  laughed. 

"  Say,  Ben,  hide  them  certificates?  Glad  to 
know  it.  Le's  see  them  six  dollars." 

Hicky  stared  at  the  bright  coin  and  examined 
one  after  another.  "  Le's  go  on  to  the  post  office," 
he  said  suddenly. 

"  You  seem  very  solemn,"  Benton  laughed. 
"  Maybe  you're  like  me  and  think  Silas  has  lost 
his  mind." 

"  Well,  no,  I  wa'n't  thinkin'  jest  that,"  said 
Hicky  absently. 

They  walked  into  the  post  office  side  by  side. 
Benton  mailed  the  letter  to  'Bije  and  inquired  for 
his  own  mail.  There  was  nothing. 

"  Say,  Jack,"  said  Hicky  to  the  postmaster.  He 
laid  the  six  coins  upon  the  little  window  sill. 
"  Don't  yous  think  Si  hev'  got  mighty  generous 
of  a  sudden?  " 

The  postmaster  examined  the  dollars  and  be- 


UNCLE   HI'S  LAST    CHARGE      285 

came  strangely  excited.  "  Yous  don't  mean  it, 
Hicky!" 

"Then  what  do  I  mean?"  retorted  Hicky. 

"  Great  fathers  alive !  "  cried  the  postmaster. 
"  That  ole  skinflint !  Whar's  'Bije?  " 

"  He  said  he  was  going  to  Gentry  County  to 
build  a  house,"  said  Benton,  wholly  mystified. 

"Build  his  gran'mammy!  "  snorted  the  post- 
master. "  He's  in  St.  Louis  this  minute,  as  shore 
as  the  Fore  Courts  is  thar',  which  he  orter  be  in  one 
of 'em!" 

"  When's  he  comin'  home?  "  demanded  Hicky. 

Benton  shook  his  head.  'Bije  had  not  revealed 
his  plans. 

"  Say!  "  said  Hicky  hastily,  "  d'  ye  reckon  the 
operator  is  in  the  deepot?  " 

"  'Course  he  hain't  in  the  deepot,"  retorted  the 
postmaster.  "  Is  he  ever  in  the  deepot  when 
yous  want  to  send  a  telegraph?  Git  on  my  ole 
sorrel,  Hicky,  an'  hike  out  to  his  place.  Make 
him  pick  up  his  feet;  ole  sorrel  can  do  it." 

"  Ben,"  said  Hicky  impressively,  "  don't  say 
nothin'  of  all  this  to  Silas.  Begin  to  smell 
smoke?" 

"  That  explains  the  queer  sounds  from  the  dark 
room — and  the  smells !  "  Benton  exclaimed  as 
the  truth  flashed  upon  him.  "  How  dull  I  have 
been !  " 

"  Well,  you're  gettin'  bright.  Jest  lay  low 
till  'Bije  comes;  we  want  to  take  him  warm.  We'll 


286  STORK'S   NEST 

git  the  sheriff  here;  but  if  the  least  warnin'  is 
leaked,  you'll  never  see  hide  nor  hair  of  our  man. 
Heard  from  your  minin'  shurs?" 

Benton  shook  his  head,  still  excited  by  his  sud- 
den discovery.  "  No  such  company  in  existence, 
I  suppose,"  he  returned.  "  How  long  has  'Bije 
been  at  this  business?"  Hicky  became  confiden- 
tial and  they  whispered  apart. 

The  next  week  Mrs.  Tuckermore's  son  drove 
over  for  Benton  with  the  intelligence  that  Hiram 
Garrett  was  dying.  They  made  all  speed  to  reach 
the  log  cabin  before  sunset.  As  Benton  leaped 
from  the  stile-block,  his  eyes  caught  sight  of  a 
group  of  seven  or  eight  neighbors  who  sat  under 
the  trees,  exchanging  anecdotes  and  asking  about 
each  other's  families  in  low  voices.  It  was  thus 
they  paid  respect  to  the  dying,  and  Benton  realized 
that  the  time  was  now  close  at  hand.  A  heavy 
sadness  caused  his  heart  to  sink,  and  his  feet  grew 
slower  as  he  approached  the  beloved  door. 

He  heard  Mrs.  Tuckermore  saying  to  Mrs. 
Price,  "  Yap,  ole  uncle  George's  cow  hev  gone 
dry,"  and  he  heard  Mrs.  Price  say:  "Poor 
uncle  Hi!  I  remember  when  he  sold  that  cow 
to  George." 

Hicky  Price  stood  awkward  and  solemn  in  his 
Sunday  suit.  "  He's  been  callin'  for  yous,  Ben," 
he  said  in  a  thin  whisper.  "  How  d'  yous  find 
the  roads?  " 


UNCLE   HI'S   LAST    CHARGE      287 

"  Very  muddy/'  said  Benton,  passing  on. 

"They'll  get  muddier,"  said  Hicky  turning  to 
Tobe  Tuckermore;  "  they's  goin'  to  be  a  down- 
fall to-night;  the  sun  need  n't  be  shinin' !  " 

Tobe  looked  at  the  sun  critically.  "  It's  drawin* 
water  I  do  believe,"  he  cried. 

No  one  was  in  the  front  room  with  the  dying 
man  except  Emma. 

At  sight  of  the  young  man,  Emma's  golden 
hair  fell  about  the  white  face  like  a  halo  as  she 
said  close  to  his  ear:  "Here's  Ben,  dear  gran'- 

Pop." 

A  faint  smile  appeared  on  the  wrinkled  face 
and  a  thin  hand  stirred  toward  the  newcomer. 
As  Benton  took  the  hand,  the  old  man  gasped: 
"  Son,  your  comin'  to  this  country  was  the  best  job 
yous  ever  done  I  Emmy !  " 

"  Dear  gran'pop,  ain't  I  always  here,  right  by 
you?  "  said  Emma,  kissing  him. 

"  Now  yous  tell  Ben,"  gasped  Hiram. 

"  Ben,"  said  Emma  in  a  low  voice,  but  keeping 
her  face  toward  the  fading  eyes,  "  gran'pop  wants 
me  to  say  that  he  asks  you,  if  you  ever  have  the 

chance " 

.  "  No,"  whispered  Hiram. 
* "  I  mean,"  continued  Emma  slowly,  "  if  every- 
thln'  turns  out  so  that  you  can,  convenient,  and  it 
comes  your  way " 

"No!".  Hiram  objected  feebly.  "Oh, 
Emmy!", 


288  STORK'S   NEST 

Emma  kissed  him  and  began  again :  "  Gran'- 
pop  wants  to  ask  you  to  protect  me  and  take  care 
of  me — I — he  means  if  I  am  in  trouble,  an'  you 
happen  to  find  it  out,  you  know.  Gran'pop 
seems  to  forget  how  well  I  can  take  care  of  my- 
self. So,  if  it  is  ever  convenient  to  you,  and  I  need 
you " 

"  I  don't  mean  just  that,"  whispered  Hiram. 

Benton  knelt  beside  the  bed  and,  laying 
Emma's  hand  upon  that  of  her  grandfather's, 
held  both  in  a  close  grasp.  "  You  know,"  he  said 
earnestly,  "  that  I  love  you  and  that  I  love 
Emmy.  No  harm  shall  ever  come  to  her  while 
I  live,  if  I  can  prevent  it.  And  as  long  as  she 
lives,  if  she  will  let  me,  I  will  take  care  of  her." 

'*  That's  what  I  meant,  son,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  a  deep  sigh  of  content.  "Now  I  will  go  to 
sleep.  Good-night,  son.  Good-night,  Emmy." 

Emma  said  with  a  piteous  entreaty  in  her 
earnest  girlish  voice:  "  Oh,  darlin',  can't  yous 
keep  awake  a  little  longer?  " 

But  Hiram  had  fallen  asleep. 

Emma  knelt  beside  the  bed,  and  Benton  softly 
rested  his  hand  upon  her  head. 

The  last  beams  of  the  sun  shot  through  the 
open  door  and  quivered  on  the  step  where  the  old 
trapper  had  loved  to  sit  in  the  evening  with  his 
pipe.  Those  beams  were  as  golden  and  as  elo- 
quent of  joyous  life  as  when  they  had  made  glad 
his  eyes  in  long  vanished  boyhood;  but  now  they 


UNCLE   HI'S  LAST    CHARGE      289 

were  not  for  him.  The  world  was  robed  in  her 
fresh  green  dress  which  showed  dashes  of  autumn 
color,  and  the  redbird  sang,  but  it  was  not  to  do 
him  honor.  Yet  there  was  no  cruelty,  Benton 
thought,  in  the  laughing  sunbeams  or  in  the 
sparkling  garments  of  the  earth  or  in  the  burst  of 
bird  song.  For  sun,  earth  and  bird  are  for  the 
living;  but  for  the  dead  a  Sun  of  Righteousness, 
a  world  fairer  than  man's  dream  of  beauty,  and 
the  music  of  God's  voice. 


XVIII 
'BIJE'S    PLOTS 

A  FORM   approached  the  watchers  in  the 
yard,     and     suddenly     Hicky     whispered 
fiercely:  "  Thar's  'Bije!     He  have  come 
at  last!" 

It  needed  but  a  glance  at  the  neighbors  sitting 
under  the  trees  to  tell  Abijah  Stork  that  Hiram 
Garrett  was,  to  say  the  least,  in  a  critical  condi- 
tion. He  strode  past  them  with  a  slight  bow  and 
entered  the  front  room.  His  eagle  eye  scanned 
Emma  kneeling  beside  the  dead  trapper.  Ben- 
ton  turned,  as  if  to  oppose  his  entrance,  but  the 
giant  pushed  his  way  to  Emma's  side.  The  word 
was  now  circulated  among  the  friends  in  the  yard 
that  Hiram  was  dead.  One  by  one  they  entered, 
solemn  and  noiseless,  and  stood  about  the  bed. 
The  sunlight  vanished  from  the  wall  where  it  had 
quivered  above  the  white  face.  The  chill  twi- 
light of  October  looked  through  the  open  win- 
dow and  the  cries  of  whippoorwills  and  the 
hoarse  prophetic  calls  of  rain  crows  added  a  mel- 
ancholy touch  to  the  hush  of  nature. 

'Bije  took  control  of  affairs,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  no  one  thought  of  questioning  his 
orders.  Even  Benton  obeyed,  finding  them  reason- 

290 


BIJE'S   PLOTS  291 

able,  even  necessary,  but  he  obeyed  in  secret 
triumph.  'Bije  was  at  home  again,  little  dream- 
ing that  the  secret  of  his  life  had  been  penetrated  1 
Hicky  Price  gave  Benton  a  significant  glance  as  if 
to  say  "Wait!" 

Few  of  the  conveniences  which,  at  the  time  of 
death,  had  seemed  in  Blair  City  indispensable  were 
available  here  in  the  backwoods.  The  funeral 
must  take  place  in  the  morning,  and  before  dark  a 
man  was  sent  to  dig  the  grave.  'Bije  appointed 
himself  to  sit  up  with  the  body  and  Emma  was 
driven  to  the  Tuckermore  home.  Benton  watched 
the  buggy  vanish  over  the  hill,  then  said  to  'Bije 
with  quiet  decision :  "  I,  too,  will  sit  up  in  the 


room." 


Silas  overheard  the  words  and  sought  to  dis- 
suade the  young  man,  but  Benton  put  him  aside. 
At  last,  all  had  left  the  cabin  save  'Bije  and  Ben- 
ton,  Emma's  two  lovers.  It  was  now  dark.  A 
candle  was  stuck  upon  a  step  of  the  ladder  which 
rose  from  the  center  of  the  front  room  to  the  loft 
above.  The  two  men  seated  themselves  in  silence 
to  watch  beside  the  dead.  The  younger  was  near 
the  bed,  while  the  other  crouched  in  his  chair  be- 
side the  open  door. 

The  face  of  the  old  trapper  was  calm  and  smil- 
ing as  the  light  flared  up  and  wavered  in  the  un- 
steady breeze;  and  when  the  flame  sank  to  a  blue 
flutter  the  white,  still  face  showed  against  the 
gathering  shadows  as  a  messenger  of  peace.  It 


292  STORK'S   NEST 

was  some  time  before  Benton  discovered  that  his 
companion  never  glanced  toward  the  bed,  seeming 
to  cower  from  the  presence  of  death.  The  huge 
form  was  shrunken  in  its  chair,  as  if  forsaken  by 
that  resolution  and  authority  which  was  wont  to 
hold  it  erect.  The  large  features  were  in  profile 
and,  as  they  showed  against  the  blackness  of  the 
sky,  they  suggested  latent  cruelty  which  had  lost 
its  power  to  inflict  pain.  What  had  happened  to 
the  giant  to  rob  him  of  his  self-possession?  He 
could  not  have  found  out  that  he  was  suspected  of 
criminal  conduct,  the  punishment  for  which  was 
the  prison  at  Jefferson  City!  He  must  not  sus- 
pect this  till  the  net  was  ready  to  close  about  his 
feet.  He  had  left  Emma,  confident  of  her  willing- 
ness to  become  his  wife,  and  he  had  not  seen  her 
alone  since  his  return.  Yet  Benton  felt  sure  that 
'Bije's  whole  attitude  was  changed,  not  only  to- 
ward him,  but  toward  Emma. 

The  young  man  grew  heavily  oppressed  by  the 
silence  and  by  the  uneasy  influence  which  emanated 
from  the  stooped-over  body,  the  long  arms  hanging 
with  fingers  crooked  as  if  for  grasping,  the  heavy 
boots  extended  along  their  sides  upon  the  bare 
floor.  Nor  was  it  this  silent  influence  alone  which 
disturbed  his  thoughts.  Once  in  a  while,  now  and 
again,  the  huge  head  turned  stealthily  and  the 
deep  eyes  of  'Bije,  cowering  from  the  bed  and  its 
occupant,  crept  along  the  floor  to  Benton  and  stole 
over  him  with  an  impenetrable  gaze.  It  seemed 


BIJE'S   PLOTS  293 

to  study  his  every  member  and  to  weigh  his  possi- 
bility of  resistance.  When  Benton  met  the  search- 
ing gaze  'Bije  would  slowly  turn  away,  while  the 
other  concealed  the  little  chill  which  stole  over  him 
on  encountering  those  evil  eyes. 

About  midnight  'Bije  rose  and  walked  from  the 
room.  Presently  he  was  heard  in  the  kitchen, 
rummaging  among  dishes  and  pans.  When  he 
returned  he  carried  a  shapeless  piece  of  corn  bread 
and  the  thigh  of  a  chicken.  He  seated  himself 
with  his  back  to  the  bed,  bringing  his  profile  to  the 
candlelight,  and  began  to  eat.  As  he  tore  the 
meat  from  the  bone  with  his  large  white  teeth  his 
nose  flattened  and  the  wrinkles  above  his  lip 
stretched  out  in  a  suggestion  of  ferocious  hunger,  as 
if  the  miser,  half-starved  by  his  own  frugality, 
were  appeasing  his  appetite  without  stint  upon 
another's  bounty.  It  was  a  fancy  whicli  did  him 
injustice,  yet  Benton  could  not  but  entertain  it;  and 
when,  at  last,  the  teeth  ceased  to  tear  and  the  bread 
had  disappeared  in  large,  swift  bites,  he  imagined 
that  'Bije  was  still  hungry  and  would  presently  rise 
in  quest  of  more.  At  last,  the  sky  began  to  lighten 
while  a  fresh  breeze  rushed  with  increasing  volume 
through  the  indistinct  trees. 

'Bije  slowly  rose  and  stood  in  the  doorway.  He 
spoke  and,  after  the  long,  tense  silence,  his  deep 
voice  jarred  strangely  upon  the  death-chamber. 

"  It's  come  at  last!  " 

"  What?  "  asked  Benton  quickly. 


294  STORK'S   NEST 

'Bije  did  not  answer,  but  a  sudden  dash  of  rain 
answered  for  him.  Presently  it  was  descending 
with  violence.  The  roof  rang  with  the  downpour 
and  the  water-pipes  gurgled  and  foamed.  The 
early  light  vanished  as  thick  clouds  swung  low. 

"  Lonesome  weather,"  growled  'Bije.  He 
pulled  his  hat  down  to  his  ears  and  walked  leisurely 
out  of  the  house.  "  I'll  take  'Thuze  an'  get 
Emmy,"  he  said,  walking  away  as  quietly  as  if 
water  were  his  native  element.  It  seemed  a  long 
time  to  Benton  before  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs 
were  heard.  Hicky  Price,  Tobe  Tuckermore, 
Silas  Stork  and  a  few  other  men  appeared  on  the 
cinderpath.  Among  them,  Benton  espied  Jim 
Whitlicks. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Benton,  as  they  stood  still, 
craning  their  necks  to  look  through  the  open  door. 

"  Nuck,"  said  Tobe;  "too  wet." 

"  But  you  must  n't  stand  out  there  in  that  del- 
uge," Benton  remonstrated. 

'  We  air  as  wet  as  the  rain,"  remarked  Hicky; 
"  they's  no  more  danger  of  it  wettin'  us  than  us 
wettin'  it." 

.  "  My  ole  woman  '11  be  here  d'rectly,"  Tobe  said 
solemnly.  "  'Bije  is  drivin'  her  an'  Emmy  in  our 
kerridge.  Has  the  coffin  came?  " 

Benton  shook  his  head.  "  Jim,  you'd  better 
come  in,  anyway,"  he  urged.  "  You'll  be  made 
sick  out  there." 

"  'Twon't    be    more    'n    I    expect,"    said    Jim 


BIJE'S   PLOTS  295 

dismally.  "  I'm  too  wet  to  come  in.  Thar's  the 
coffin  now,"  he  added,  as  wheels  were  heard.  "  I 
do  hope  ole  'Thuze  will  behave  hisself  goin'  in  the 
percession,"  he  added;  "  like  'nough  he  '11  squat!  " 

"  If  he  do,  I'll  kill  him,"  said  Tobe  sharply. 
"  He  will  find  he  hain't  got  uncle  Hi  to  cherish 
his  stubborn  ole  bones  now !  " 

The  minister  had  come  with  the  coffin  and,  dur- 
ing the  solemn  scene  that  followed,  Benton  drew 
Hicky  aside  and  asked  his  intentions  regarding 
'Bije. 

"  We  can't  do  nothin'  till  to-night,"  said  Hicky, 
cautiously  looking  about  to  make  sure  that  they 
were  not  overheard.  "  Us  telegraphin'  to  St. 
Louis  must  of  got  to  his  years  somehow,  he  left  so 
quick,  an'  if  so  he  must  be  suspicionin'  a  thing  or 
two !  But  I  'low  to  git  the  sheriff  here,  train-time, 
an',  as  Tobe  will  be  cattle-loadin'  an'  you  with 
Tobe's  son  an'  Jim — But  I  reckon  we'll  have  to 
leave  Jim  out  of  this,  he  has  so  little  bone." 

*  Yap,"  said  Jim,  hearing  the  last  remark,  "  I 
have  been  wood  choppin'  since  cock-crowin'  an' 
I'm  that  wore  out  I'm  past  patchin'.  Leave  me 
out  of  ever'thin' !  " 

Hicky  turned  his  back  on  Jim  and  whispered 
more  guardedly:  "That  will  make  four  men 
ag'in  'Bije;  me,  you,  Tobe  an'  the  sheriff — for 
Tobe's  son  will  have  to  take  the  cattle  on  to 
Chicawgo.  We'll  round  him  up  at  his  house  an' 
— But  thar  he  comes  now.  S-s-sh!  " 


296  STORK'S   NEST 

'Bije  drove  into  the  yard  with  Emma  and  Mrs. 
Tuckermore. 

As  the  little  company  slowly  wound  their 
way  to  the  cemetery  the  rain  beat  with  undi- 
minished  force  upon  the  horsemen.  There  was 
but  one  carriage  to  follow  the  coffin ;  in  this  carriage 
sat  the  minister,  'Bije,  Benton,  Emma  and  Mrs. 
Tuckermore.  'Thuze  had  been  turned  over  to  Jim 
Whitlicks,  who  rode  the  ancient  horse  with  much 
trepidation.  Tobe  Tuckermore  kept  an  eye  upon 
the  animal,  as  if  resolved  to  carry  out  his  threat ; 
but  so  far  from  manifesting  a  desire  to  "  squat," 
'Thuze  showed  an  almost  uncontrollable  purpose 
to  get  in  the  lead  of  the  procession. 

"  I  never  see  him  so  spry,"  muttered  Jim  as  he 
blistered  his  hands  from  sawing  and  jerking  on  the 
bridle;  "seems  like  he  jest  knows  uncle  Hi's 
dead!" 

It  was  raining  so  hard  when  the  body  was  low- 
ered into  the  grave  that  the  minister  made  his  cere- 
mony brief.  Tobe  Tuckermore  and  his  wife  in- 
vited Emma  to  go  home  with  them  in  their  car- 
riage "  an'  stay  till  we  whistle,"  their  manner 
indicating  that  it  would  be  many  a  day  before  they 
gave  the  signal. 

"  Let  me  ride  with  you,"  said  'Bije,  who  had 
stood  apart  from  the  group  of  mourners.  "  I 
have  something  very  important  to  discuss  with 
Emmy."  He  climbed  in  and  they  drove  away, 
Benton  watching  with  the  thought  that  'Bije  was 


BIJE'S   PLOTS  297 

perhaps  taking  his  last  ride  with  the  Grand  River 
girl. 

"  Seems  awful  lonesome,1'  moralized  Hicky  as 
the  men  mounted,  "  to  leave  poor  ole  uncle  Hi  out 
here  in  the  lonesome  cemet'ry,  the  rain  pourin'  and 
the  sky  so  gray."  They  splashed  away,  along  the 
roads  where  pools  were  already  forming,  and 
nothing  more  was  said  till  they  reached  the  cross- 
roads. Then  as  Silas,  Benton,  and  Jim  turned 
homeward,  Hicky  called  to  the  young  man, 
"Don't  forget!" 

In  the  meantime  the  Tuckermore  carriage  had 
reached  home,  and  'Bije  waited  on  the  front  porch 
to  see  Emma.  Grim  and  silent  he  moved  rest- 
lessly from  side  to  side  with  iron  determination 
fixed  upon  his  strong,  handsome  face.  There  was 
something  in  his  contempt  for  physical  discomforts 
which  naturally  appealed  to  those  of  weaker 
natures  and  his  sober  suit  of  black  set  off  his  large 
features  to  advantage.  When  Emma  came  out  to 
him  she  could  not  repress  a  little  thrill  of  admira- 
tion. She,  too,  was  in  black  and  he  had  never 
found  her  so  winning.  Grief  had  softened  and 
refined  her  expression  and  it  was  more  appealing 
than  he  had  ever  known.  But  the  stern  lines  of 
his  face  did  not  relax. 

"  It  won't  rain  on  us  out  here,  Emmy,"  he  said, 

drawing   a   chair  close  to   the  weather-boarding. 

'You   set  down;   I'll  just  stand.     I   know   this 

ain't  no  time  to  bother  you,  if  it  could  be  helped, 


298  STORK'S   NEST 

your  gran'daddy  just  laid  away;  but  it  can't  be 
helped  and  I've  got  to  speak  out  and  clear  things 
up." 

"  Yes,  I'd  rather  not  talk  about  it  now,"  said 
Emma  wearily,  folding  her  little  hands  on  the 
black  dress  and  looking  down. 

"  I  got  your  letter,"  said  'Bije  abruptly. 
"  That's  why  I  come;  and  a  letter  from  Si,  same 
mail,  Emmy." 

"  Must  'a'  been  Si's  letter  that  brought  you," 
said  Emma,  still  looking  down;  "  guess  it  was  n't 


mine." 


"  Guess  it  was,  though,"  retorted  the  man 
hoarsely. 

"  There  was  n't  no  use  to  answer  my  letter," 
said  the  tired  voice,  "  either  by  pen,  or  by  person." 

"  Emmy,"  said  'Bije  suddenly,  "  do  you  think  I 
mean  to  give  you  up?  " 

"  I  reckon  so,"  was  the  quiet  answer.  *  You'd 
best." 

His  voice  shook  with  suppressed  emotion. 
"  After  me  loving  an'  hoping  an'  toiling  for  you  all 
these  years,  an'  seein'  you  grow  up  from  a  little 
girl  to  the  beautiful  young  woman  you  are,  do 
you  think  Abijah  Stork  will  just  sit  by  an'  let  you 
go?" 

"  You  get  somebody  else,  'Bije;  the  world  is  full 
of  girls  as  fine  as  I  am." 

"  I've  known  you  since  you  used  to  be  carried 
in  these  arms,  Emmy,"  he  burst  forth  passionately. 


BIJE'S   PLOTS  299 

"  An*  I've  felt  the  lonesome  spot  for  you  ever 
since  you  grew  too  big  to  be  loved  like  I  used  to 
love  you,  you  runnin'  to  meet  *  'Bijey  '  as  you  called 
me  in  your  flutey-kind  o'  voice.  They  ain't  no 
other  girl  in  the  world  for  me.  But  you  are  for 
me  and  these  arms  will  hold  you  again  just  as  they 
done  years  ago !  " 

"  'Bije,"  said  Emma  gently,  "  I  am  very  sorry 
for  you,  an'  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  But  some- 
body else  will  have  to  make  you  so.  I  would  n't 
have  written  that  letter  if  I  had  n't  meant  ever' 
word.  I  mean  ever'  word  of  it  now.  'Tain't  no 
use  to  talk,  but  I'm  sorry, — that's  all  I  can  say." 

*  You  don't  know  'Bije  if  you  think  I  am  dis- 
couraged that  easy,"  he  said  almost  contemptu- 
ously. "  Little  girl,  you  belong  to  me;  your  life 
is  a  part  of  my  life.  Your  dead  gran'father 
wanted  us  to  marry,  an'  it  '11  kill  me  if  I  don't. 
Think  what  you  are  doing,  Emmy;  remember  our 
plans  and  your  promise !  " 

"  It's  all  settled,  'Bije,"  she  said  compassion- 
ately. "  There's  no  use.  I — just — can't — love 
—you !  " 

"  You  don't  know  'Bije,"  he  said,  his  voice  hard- 
ening, "  if  you  think  I'll  let  a  milk-faced,  cowardly 
cur  like  Benton  Cabot  stand  between  me  and  my 
very  life!  "i 

"  And  you  don't  know  Emmy  Garrett,"  she 
cried,  springing  up  with  cheeks  aflame,  "  if  you 
think  you  can  talk  to  me  like  that !  " 


300  STORK'S   NEST 

"  I  reckon,"  said  the  other  slowly,  "  you  think 
Benton  is  more  to  your  taste  than  a  man  who  has 
seen  the  world  and  can  provide  for  you.  But  if 
so,  you  might  as  well  stop  thinking;  provided  for 
you'll  be,  and  by  me !  Nothin'  on  earth  can  pre- 
vent it,  not  even  your  wishes,  Emmy;  an'  as 
for  that  long-faced  cub,  afeerd  of  a  muddy 
crossin' " 

"  I  guess  you  think  a  heap  of  me,"  said  Emma, 
"  or  you  would  n't  come  from  gran'pop's  funeral 
to  insult  me  in  my  friends'  house !  I  never  knew 
you  cared  quite  so  much  for  me,  'Bije  I  I  wish  you 
good-morning." 

'Bije  stepped  between  her  and  the  front  door. 
"  Emmy,"  he  said,  "  listen  to  me  a  minute." 

"Not  to-day,"  said  Emma,  her  eyes  burning. 
"  Stand  out  of  my  way,  'Bije,  stand  out  of  my 
way!" 

Suddenly  the  great  form  knelt  in  the  doorway 
and,  before  she  realized  his  intention,  'Bije  had 
kissed  one  of  her  bare  feet.  Emma  stood  motion- 
less a  moment  then  reached  down  her  hand  and 
touched  his  hair.  "Poor  'Bije!"  she  said,  and 
entered  the  house. 

'Bije  hurried  out  into  the  rain  and  walked  home 
through  the  increasing  mud  of  the  unworked  roads. 
Silas  saw  him  coming  and  met  him  at  the  door. 

"  Come  up,"  said  'Bije  abruptly.  They  as- 
cended to  the  second  story  and  'Bije  led  the  way 
to  the  Snake  Room.  He  unlocked  the  door  and 


BIJE'S  PLOTS  301 

they  entered.  It  was  intensely  dark.  'Bije  lit  a 
lamp.  "  Set  down,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"What's  up,  'Bijey?"  said  Silas  nervously. 
The  other  gave  him  a  quick  look. 

"What  are  you  shakin'  about,  Si?"  he  asked, 
suddenly  holding  the  lamp  close  to  his  brother's 
face. 

"  Git  away,  'Bijey,  boy,"  remonstrated  Silas, 
shrinking  back,  "th'  ain't  nothin'  the  matter  with 


me." 


'Bije  replaced  the  lamp  upon  the  table  and 
seated  himself  upon  a  pile  of  sacks  which  filled  one 
corner  of  the  room  and  overflowed  into  the  middle 
of  the  floor.  The  coffin  was  pushed  back  under 
the  table. 

"  I  come  here  to  discuss  troubles  of  my  own," 
said  'Bije,  u  but  I  find  you  have  some,  too  I  Now, 
Si,  you  never  could  keep  nothin'  from  me  an'  you 
never  could  help  actin'  the  fool  when  I  went  off 
and  left  you  to  yourself.  What  have  you  done 
an'  what  are  you  holdin'  back?" 

"Nothin',  'Bijey,  nothin'!"  said  Silas  faintly. 

"You  tell  me,"  said  'Bije,  pointing  his  long 
finger  at  his  brother,  "an'  do  it  quick!  What's 
on  that  conscience  of  yourn?  Glad  I  hain't 
one!" 

"  'Bijey,  I  hain't  none  nuther,  I  sw'ar  I  hain't. 
No  conscience  fur  me !  An'  I  hain't  done  a  thing. 
I  did  pay  off  Hicky  Price  a  matter  o'  six  dollars 
board,  three  days  ago " 


302  STORK'S   NEST 

'Bije  started  to  his  feet.  "  How'd  you  pay 
him,  Si ?  "  he  asked  quickly.  "  In  new  goods?  " 

«  Ya-a-a Well,  yous  see " 

"New  goods,  Si?    New  goods?" 

"  Ya-a-a-ap.    I  sent  it  by  Ben." 

"  Oh,  yap ! "  said  'Bije,  nodding  his  head. 
"Well,  Si,  you've  about  ruined  us!  If  I  was  n't 
about  ready  for  anythin',  nohow,  I'd  jest  go  crazy, 
I'd  be  so  mad  at  you.  But  it  '11  take  ever'  cool  nerve 
I've  got  to  get  out  o'  this,  so  I  can't  afford  to  fall 
to  an'  half  beat  you  to  death,  as  somebody  should 
if  they  was  anybody  to  call  on,  whilst  I  was  plan- 
nin'.  Oh,  you  ole  fool !  So  you  let  that  pride  of 
yourn,  that  unreasonable  scarecrow  of  a  pride, — 
nothin'  in  it  but  straw, — you  let  that  pride  undo  us ; 
You  would  n't  no  more  spend  a  cent  than  I  would, 
but  you  want  to  get  the  name  of  bein'  liberal — 
which  nobody  won't  believe!  You  can't  make 
people  think  you  liberal  unless  you  are  liberal. 
That's  one  thing  nobody  can't  be  fooled  about! 
An'  yet  that  newborn  pride  of  flesh  an'  lust  of 
eye  has  brung  every'thing  to  a  focus — with  me  at 
the  end  of  the  focus." 

"  I  jest  thought "    Silas  apologized. 

'Bije  waved  his  hand  impatiently.  ;t  When  a 
man  has  luck  an'  Si  Stork  ag'in  him,  he  might  as 
well  quit  the  game !  When  Ben's  guardian  wrote 
up  here  that  Ben  had  nothin'  but  minin'  stock  I 
looked  up  that  mine,  though  you  said  't  was  a 
waste  of  time  and  money..  I  found  it  valuable, 


BIJE'S  PLOTS  303 

did  n't  I?  When  Ben  comes,  nothin'  would  do 
you  but  we  must  all  go  off  on  a  fish-fry  to  give  the 
ghost  a  chance  to  rob  him  of  his  shurs.  I  knowed 
he'd  leave  'em  in  his  trunk,  but,  jest  to  make  you 
easy,  Hezzie  Whitlicks  done  the  job.  Did  n't  find 
nothin',  did  he?" 

"  Well,  now,  brother  'Bijey,"  remonstrated 
Silas  feebly. 

"  You  have  a  conscience,  you  fool,  and  they's 
no  use  lyin'  out  of  it !  Let  it  go.  No  time  now, 
but  to  plan  an'  plan  quick.  I  noticed  how  Hicky 
Price  was  lookin'  at  me  durin'  the  funeral,  an' 
winkin'  at  ole  Walker  an'  Josh  Turner.  And 
when  I  come  through  Laclede  Station  I  found  out 
— an'  you  listen  an'  let  that  everlastin'  conscience 
of  yourn  enjoy  itself — that  a  telegraph  had  been 
sent  to  the  county  sheriff  biddin'  him  to  make  haste 
for  these  parts.  Understan'?  He  ought  to  be 
here  jest  about  mornin'  from  what  I  could  gather. 
Ever'thing  must  be  done  this  blessed  day,  an'  a 
reg'lar  flood  outdoors !  " 

"My  Lord!"  cried  Silas,  ghastly  pale  in  the 
flare  of  the  smoky  lamp.  "  We  air  did  fur !  " 

'Bije  rose.  "  'T  would  serve  you  right,"  he  said 
hoarsely,  "  but  you  do  as  I  say,  no  matter  what  I 
say,  an'  I'll  get  us  both  out  o'  this." 

"  I  believe  yous  kin,"  said  Silas,  his  face  light- 
ing up. 

"Yap,"  said  'Bije,  "they  ain't  no  train  of  cir-1 
cumstances  can  down  me,  not  even  if  my  fool  of  a , 


304  STORK'S   NEST 

brother  is  the  enjine  hitched  to  it,  snortin'  an' 
puffin'  down  grade." 

Silas,  taking  fresh  courage,  cried,  "An'  his 
name  is  'Bije  Stork!" 

"  Dry  up !  "  retorted  'Bije  ungraciously,  "  an' 
listen  to  me.  Ever'  one  of  these  bags  has  got  to 
be  carried  from  here  to-night  and  buried  under 
the  old  Shagg  cabin  across  Grand  River.  That's 
number  one.  Jim  will  have  to  drive  the  cattle  to- 
night just  before  we  cross.  We'll  take  the  team 
of  mules.  Git  it  in  your  head?  " 

"  Yap.     It  '11  be  awful  dark,  'Bije !  " 

"Won't  be  as  dark  as  the  pen'tentiary,"  re- 
torted the  other.  "  They  have  mighty  dark  places 
thar,  I  do  hear !  Now !  listen  at  me.  I  will  be  seen 
to  leave  this  place  in  about  half  an  hour  and  ever'- 
body  must  believe  I've  went  back  to  St.  Louis. 
You  get  ever'body  out  o'  the  way  so  I  can  sneak 
back  to  this  room.  Understan'?  Listenin'  at 
me?" 

"  Yap.     That's  easy  an'  often  did  before." 

"Which  we  air  now  to  number  three.  When 
we  drive  away  with  these  bags,  I'll  lead  my  hoss 
to  the  red  oak  at  the  turnin'  in  the  woods  an'  tie 
him  thar.  When  we  come  back,  I'll  git  out  the 
wagon  an'  take  my  hoss  an'  leave  you." 

"Wharto?" 

"  Tuckermore's." 

"  For  which,  'Bijey;  for  which?  " 

"When  I  leave  these  diggin's  to-night,  pard, 


BUS'S  PLOTS  '305 

Emmy  goes  with  me,"  said  'Bije,  walking  on  tiptoe 
toward  Silas  and  stoopin'  down  to  whisper. 

"  Bije!  "  cried  Silas,  starting  back. 

"  It's  your  own  fault,"  growled  'Bije.  "  You 
let  Ben  run  over  thar  all  the  time  I  was  way,  an' 
yet  you  knew  my  wishes." 

"  'Bijey,  I  could  n't  help  uncle  Hi's  dyin',"  re- 
monstrated Silas. 

"You  can't  help  nothin',"  retorted  'Bije;  "but 
I  can  an'  will!  She'll  marry  me  all  right.  You 
just  tell  folks  she  has  run  away  with  me  an'  when 
we  come  back  she'll  tell  the  same  tale." 

"Them  cattle  has  to  be  loaded  this  evenin'," 
said  Silas. 

"  Don't  I  know  it?  "  retorted  'Bije.  "  I'll  just 
weave  that  into  my  scheme.  Tobe  will  be  at  the 
cattle  pen  with  Ben  an'  Jim  and  Bud  Tuckermore. 
I'll  git  shet  of  Mrs.  Tuckermore.  Emmy  will  be 
all  alone  in  the  house.  She'll  get  on  my  hoss  an* 
away  we  go, — luck  to  you — farewell!  " 

"  Now,  say  it  all  over  ag'in,  an'  slow,"  said 
Silas.  "  If  thar's  a  hitch,  you'll  blame  me,  'Bijey." 

"  I  reckon  I  will,  bein'  nothin'  but  mortal,"  re- 
joined 'Bije,  "an*  if  they  is  I'll  hitch  you!  I 
never  went  away  from  home  yet  but  you  well-nigh 
ruined  ever'thing.  Your  sudden  pride  to  be 
thought  a  payin'  man  makes  me  sick.  Now,  can 
I  trust  you  to  git  them  minin'  certificates  just  before 
we  drive  off  with  the  bags?" 

"Shore,  'Bijey!" 


306  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Nothin'  ain't  shore  that  has  you  at  one  end  of 
it,"  growled  his  brother.  "  Shore  they're  in  his 
trunk?" 

"  Yap.  Cert.  I've  quit  watchin'  'em  too  care- 
ful because,  as  I  told  yous,  he  laid  traps  to  catch 
meddlers.  But  they're  thar.  An'  narry  one  of 
the  letters  from  his  minin'  comp'ny  has  reached 
his  eye." 

"That  goes  without  sayin',"  interrupted  'Bije 
impatiently.  "  Well,  just  remember  them  shurs 
represents  six  hundred  and  seventy  thousand  spuds 
an'  swing  on  to  'em  at  the  proper  moment.  Git 

Benton  off  to  the  loadin' "  Suddenly  he  turned 

toward  the  door  and  held  up  a  warning  hand. 
"  Si,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice,  "  that 
ghost  will  have  to  walk  the  earth  ag'in  to- 
night; this  rainy  weather  is  too  propitious 
for  it  to  lay  in  its  coffin !  "  As  he  spoke  the 
last  word  he  made  a  leap  for  the  door  and  tore  it 
open.  Jim  Whitlicks  shrank  back  terrified. 

"Why,  Jim,  howdy!"  cried  'Bije,  seizing  the 
lad's  arm.  "  Come  in  here,  pard,  come  in  an'  be 
one  of  us !  "  He  dragged  the  helpless  orphan  into 
the  chamber  and  locked  the  door. 

Silas  stared  at  the  unhappy  youth  with  ashen 
face.  "My  Lordy,  'Bije!"  he  gasped,  his  eyes 
starting,  "he  hev'  overheard  us  an'  the  hunt's  up !" 

"  If  it's  up,"  said  the  other  composedly,  "  we've 
catched  the  fox,  so  no  need  to  repine !  "  As 
he  spoke,  he  took  up  a  pair  of  scissors  from  the 


BIJE'S   PLOTS  307 

table  and  held  the  tips  of  the  blades  over  the  lamp. 
Jim  Whitlicks  darted  his  eyes  from  wall  to  wall 
like  an  entrapped  animal  seeking  escape.  His 
knees  smote  together  in  terror.  "Why,  set  down, 
pard,"  said  'Bije  heartily,  "set  down  an'  be  at 
home.  Tell  us  what  you  heard  just  now."  His 
manner  suddenly  became  brutal;  "tell  us  ever' 
word  or  we'll  kill  you  on  the  spot !  " 

"  'Bije,"  said  Jim  piteously,  "  don't  do  nothin' 
to  me,  'Bije;  I  air  jest  a  poor  weak  orphan  that 
ain't  never  done  you  or  Si  any  harm  an'  could  n't 
if  I  wanted  to." 

"  You  imp !  "  growled  'Bije  in  a  fierce  undertone, 
"  tell  us  ever'  word  you  heerd — quick!  I  ain't  got 
no  time  to  waste  over  such  an  incubus  as  you." 

Jim  writhed  in  anticipated  torture  and  locked 
his  thin  fingers  together.  "  I  heerd  yous  say  I 
must  drive  the  cattle  acrost  the  ford  to-night  an' 
that  you-all  was  goin'  to  bury  these  bags,  an'  that 
when  you-all  went  off  on  the  fish-fry,  it  wasn't  no 
use;  an'  somethin'  about  pa's  ghost — I  did  n't 
understan'  it,  indeed  I  did  n't." 

"Where  are  we  goin'  to  bury  these  bags?"  in- 
quired 'Bije,  holding  the  scissors  closer  to  the 
blaze. 

"  I  sw'ar  I  don't  know,  'Bije,  I  sw'ar  I  don't 
know!  "  cried  Jim  earnestly. 

"What  else  are  we  goin'  to  do?"  demanded 
'Bije,  watching  Jim  narrowly. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  goin'  to  do,  'Bije," 


308  STORK'S   NEST 

faltered  Jim,  wringing  his  hands.  "  Oh,  I  don't 
know." 

"  An'  if  you  knew,  you'll  tell,  hey?  " 

"  I  never  told  on  yous  yit,  'Bije." 

'Bije  treated  himself  to  a  wide-mouthed,  silent 
laugh.  Then  he  rose  from  his  chair.  "  Jim,"  he 
said  sternly,  "  I  want  to  know  why  you  was  listen- 
in'  at  that  door,  and  I  mean  to  find  out.  You  know 
me,  an'  you  know  whether  I'll  find  out  or  not.  Say, 
Jim!  Do  you  remember  when  your  pa's  ghost 
catched  you  in  the  woods  and  had  them  red  hot 
pincers  an'  held  your  leg  with  'em  till  they  went 
through  your  pants  an'  gripped  on  to  your  flesh? 
Let  me  see  that  scar,  pard.  Quick,  now !  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  'Bije,"  faltered  Jim,  wildly 
glaring  at  the  scissors,  but  at  the  same  time  rolling 
up  his  trousers'  leg,  "  have  mercy  on  me !  Si,  speak 
a  word  for  me." 

"  This  thing  is  getting  hot,"  said  'Bije,  whipping 
out  his  handkerchief  to  grasp  the  scissors  by  the 
handle.  '  Yap,  your  scar  stays  with  you — ha ! 
ha  !  ha !  I've  reason  to  think  your  pa's  ghost  will 
ha'nt  you  to-night  with  a  red  hot  pitchfork,  most 
likely.  Now  you're  goin'  to  tell  me  why  you  was 
listening  at  the  door.  An'  you  know  I'll  find  out, 
first  or  last,  so  treat  yourself  easy,  an'  out  with  it 
at  once." 

"  I  was  jest  wantin'  to  know  what  you  V  Si  had 
to  say  to  each  other,"  gasped  Jim,  "  and  that's 
all,  'Bije;  that's  the  God's  truth." 


BIJE'S   PLOTS  309 

"  Nobody  did  n't  set  you  to  listenin',  now,  hey, 
pard?" 

"  Not  a  soul,  as  I  live,  not  a  soul ! " 

"  Ben  did  n't  know  you  was  listenin',  hey?  " 

"No,  no,  no,  'Bije,  nobody  did!" 

"But  how  come  you  listenin'  at  the  door?" 

"  'Bije,  I  wanted  to  find  out  what  you  was  de- 
visin' ;  an'  listenin'  at  the  door  was  the  best  way  I 
knowed  to  git  it  fust  handed." 

'Bije  made  a  sudden  spring  at  the  lad  who,  in- 
stead of  seeking  to  escape,  fell  in  a  heap  at  his 
feet.  The  man  threw  the  lad's  head  back  upon  the 
floor  and,  sitting  upon  his  chest,  snatched  up  one 
of  the  thin  arms.  Jim  sought  to  draw  away,  but 
he  was  a  puny  child  in  the  other's  might.  'Bije 
tore  up  the  shirtsleeve  and  caught  the  flesh  of  the 
arm  between  the  heated  blades  of  the  shears.  The 
lad  uttered  an  agonized  groan. 

'  'Bijey,"  said  Silas  hastily,  "  don't  be  too  firm, 
'Bijey!" 

"  Did  Benton  know  you  was  listenin'  ?  "  de- 
manded 'Bije  furiously.  "Did  he?  did  he? 
Hey?  " 

"  No,  no,  no !     'Bije,  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't." 

"  Oh,  yap,  you  can.  Shore  he  did  n't  know, 
Jim?" 

"On  my  soul,  'Bije,  he  never!  Mercy,  O 
Mercy!  'Bije!" 

"'Bijey!"  said  Silas  feebly,  "don't  be  too 
firm." 


3io  STORK'S   NEST 

"Still  shore,  Jim?"  demanded  'Bije,  pinching 
the  skin  with  a  diabolical  contortion  of  mirth  upon 
his  lips. 

"  He  did  n't  know — he  did  n't  know !  "  moaned 
the  orphan. 

"  These  plagued  scissors  are  gettin'  cold,"  said 
'Bije,  holding  them  up  and  feeling  them  with  a 
shake  of  his  head.  Jim  panted  violently,  scarcely 
able  to  get  his  breath. 

4  'Bijey,"  cried  Silas,  in  desperation,  "  leave  the 
kid  be,  an'  come  set  on  me  instead.  Yous  kin 
see  he's  tellin'  the  truth  an'  about  tuckered  out  at 
the  same  time.  I  believe  he'll  do  jest  as  we  say." 

"Will  you,  Jim?"  asked  'Bije,  with  a  sudden 
politeness.  4  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  keep  this 
from  Ben,  an'  sister  Crishy — bags,  fish- fry  an'  all  ? 
An'  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  drive  them  cattle 
to-night?" 

"  Oh,  yes — you're  killin'  me,  'Bije — my  breath 
is  plumb  squeezed  out  my  body." 

"Why,  excuse  me!"  said  'Bije,  rising.  "I'm 
afeerd  I  was  too  inconsiderate,  findin'  such  a  com- 
fortable seat,  an'  stayin'  too  long.  Let  me  help 
you  to  arise,  pard."  He  grasped  Jim  by  the  ears 
and  drew  him  upright,  grinning  all  the  while. 
Then  his  manner  changed:  "Now,  git!"  he 
hissed,  dragging  the  other  to  the  door,  "  an'  make 
your  will  before  breathin'  a  word  of  all  this.  Si, 
go  with  him  an'  keep  an  eye  on  him  till  the  bags 
are  ready." 


XIX 

GATHERING    IN    THE    NET 

WHEN  Benton  Cabot  returned  from 
Hiram's  funeral  his  mind  was  occupied 
by  the  plan  to  capture  'Bije.  He  went 
over  in  detail  the  various  parts  that  were  to  be 
played  in  the  drama,  on  the  arrival  of  the  sheriff, 
by  Hicky,  Tobe  and  several  other  men  of  the 
neighborhood.  Silas,  too,  must  be  taken,  and  Ben- 
ton  had  been  repelled  by  the  thought  of  assisting 
in  the  capture  of  men  for  whom  he  was  working. 
On  that  account,  it  had  been  agreed  that  he  should 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  enterprise  beyond  pre- 
serving an  unsuspicious  aspect,  leaving  the  others 
free  to  act  as  they  thought  best.  He  would  have 
left  the  farm  had  he  known  'Bije  meant  to  return 
so  soon,  but  a  withdrawal  on  this  day  of  fate  would 
doubtless  arouse  the  giant's  suspicions  and  render 
the  capture  impossible.  'Bije's  career  had  been 
too  desperate,  and  his  nature  too  bold  and  vindic- 
tive, to  allow  a  hope  of  peaceful  surrender.  If  he 
were  taken,  it  would  probably  be  at  the  expense  of 
his  life  and  certainly  with  danger  to  the  lives  of 
others.  It  was  not  danger  from  which  the  young 


3i2  STORK'S   NEST 

man  shrank;  but,  in  spite  of  'Bije's  treatment  of 
him  and  the  punishment  so  well  deserved,  there 
was  that  in  the  thought  of  taking  by  stealth  the 
man  at  whose  board  he  was  eating  which  was 
peculiarly  repugnant. 

Benton  now  regretted  that  he  had  not  left  the 
employ  of  the  Storks  the  day  of  the  scene  in  the 
parlor.  He  had  stayed  on,  hoping  to  find  some 
evidence  to  convict  the  man  whose  suit  seemed 
about  to  be  rewarded  by  Emma's  hand.  He  had 
succeeded  better  than  he  had  hoped,  but  must  leave 
others  to  take  advantage  of  his  discovery.  The 
noises  and  smells  of  the  Snake  Room,  and  the  sil- 
ver dollars  with  which  he  had  been  paid  and  which 
had  so  excited  Hicky,  were  no  longer  mysteries. 
Everything  was  clear  except  the  part  that  Hezzie's 
ghost  was  playing  in  the  somber  tragedy. 

But,  even  while  he  thought  of  all  this,  his  mind 
was  distracted  by  a  very  different  image  from  that 
of  his  enemy.  There  arose  constantly  before  him 
the  sweet,  pale  face  of  Emma  and  her  form,  ideal- 
ized by  the  simple  gown  of  black.  All  his  heart 
went  out  to  her  in  her  sorrow;  the  sharp  edges  of 
his  logic  were  dulled  by  human  experience.  It 
seemed  possible  that  at  some  future  day  there 
might  be  a  new  Emmy,  one  with  the  imperfections 
of  the  old  Emmy  refined  away.  She  did  not  love 
him,  he  thought,  because  she  had  not  yet  learned 
to  know  love.  But  when  her  heart  was  opened  in 
the  flower  of  womanhood,  he  believed  the  beauty 


GATHERING   IN    THE   NET      313 

of  its  bloom  would  be  for  him  alone.  Since  that 
moment  of  sacred  ecstasy  when  her  lips  met  his 
without  shrinking,  he  knew  the  cause  of  'Bije  Stork 
was  lost,  and  since  then,  he  had  grown  surer  and 
surer  that  he  was  her  destiny  as  she  was  to  be  a 
part  of  his  own.  Now,  she  was  impossible.  But 
already  he  was  planning  her  education  and  wonder- 
ing how  he  could  place  her  under  those  influences 
which  were  to  make  her  an  equal  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world. 

He  was  so  engrossed  by  these  reflections  that  the 
morning  wore  away  before  he  missed  Jim  Whit- 
licks.  He  did  not  see  the  orphan  till  Mrs.  Stork 
announced  dinner.  This  ceremony  consisted  in 
the  mistress  of  the  house  entering  the  front  hall, 
rubbing  her  hands  upon  her  apron,  and  crying 
shrilly:  "Hi,  thar!" 

Benton,  who  had  been  mending  harness  in  his 
room,  obeyed  the  summons  just  as  Silas,  'Bije  and 
Jim  issued  from  the  Snake  Room.  Benton  stared 
at  his  friend  in  surprise,  but  the  latter  made  no 
sign.  All  four  went  downstairs  together  in  si- 
lence while  the  rain  dashed  viciously  against  the 
window  above  the  landing,  as  if  trying  to  reach 
them.  Jim  had  been  in  the  Snake  Room  with  the 
twins,  yet  expressed  neither  fear  nor  exultation 
upon  his  leathery  face !  Benton  marveled. 

"  I've  got  to  set  off  for  Laclede  Station  this 
minute,"  'Bije  announced  to  his  sister-in-law. 
''  Wrap  me  up  something  to  eat  an'  be  in  a  hurry 


3i4  STORK'S   NEST 

about    it.     I    won't    be    back    fur    a    month    or 


more." 


"  'Bije  has  got  to  go  to  buildin'  his  an1  Emmy's 
house  in  'arnest,  now,"  murmured  Silas.  "  Emmy 
have  gi'n  in  complete,  this  day." 

"  Yap,"  said  'Bije  sternly.  "  Good-by,  Benton 
Cabot,  I  may  never  see  you  again.  You  can  con- 
gratulate me  right  now,  if  you  want  to  have  it 


over." 


"  Oh,  I'll  wait,"  said  Benton  carelessly,  though 
his  heart  stood  still  in  sudden  doubt. 

"  Good-by,  Jim,"  said  'Bije,  taking  the  youth's 
hand.  "  Many's  the  wallopin's  I've  give  you,  but 
none  o'  em  was  given  amiss,  I  do  think." 

"  The  same  to  yous,  'Bije,"  said  Jim  in  a  per- 
functory manner. 

"  Good-by,  sister  Letitia,"  said  'Bije.  "Be 
contented." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  'Bije,"  was  the  uneasy  re- 
sponse, as  Mrs.  Stork  wrapped  up  his  lunch. 

"  Don't  drop  no  tears  in  it,"  said  'Bije  sarcas- 
tically. "  So  long,  Si.  Take  keer  of  yourself." 

"  I'll  aim  to,  'Bijey,"  said  Silas  heartily. 

'Bije  strode  out  into  the  rain,  slamming  the  door 
after  him. 

"  Now,  all  to  the  table,"  said  Silas,  "  an'  let's 
hasten  with  our  victuals,  for  we've  got  a  nasty 
day  for  cattle-drivin'  and  cattle-loadin'.  It's  six 
mile  to  the  switch,  an'  that  '11  take  over  three 
hours'  drivin',  an'  the  loadin'  will  be  two  hours  an' 


GATHERING    IN    THE   NET      315 

more.  They's  eighteen  steer  to  a  load;  an'  ten 
minutes  for  each  car  in  schedule  time.  Thar's 
five  hours,  an'  comin'  back  another  hour,  with  this 
mud,  an'  like  enough  the  train  late !  An'  it  don't 
come  till  half-past  six.  Pass  them  cold  fried  per- 
tatoes,  Crishy;  but  la!  I  hope  you-all  won't  feel 
like  gormandizin'  to-day  with  poor  uncle  Hi  jest 
laid  in  his  grave.  Eat  sparin',  to  do  the  ole  man 
honor!" 

But  Benton  did  not  need  the  injunction.  He 
found  himself  unable  to  swallow  his  food.  He 
realized  the  impossibility  of  stopping  'Bije  un- 
aided; but,  since  Hicky  had  gone  to  Laclede  Station 
to  remain  there  till  the  sheriff's  coming,  it  was 
likely  enough  that  he  might  seize  the  escaping 
fugitive. 

What  had  given  'Bije  this  sudden  alarm?  It 
might  be  that  his  going  was  a  part  of  previously 
arranged  plans.  What  most  troubled  the  young 
man  were  the  few  words  dropped  relative  to 
Emma.  He  knew  'Bije  had  been  alone  with  her 
just  after  the  funeral.  It  was  not  unlikely  that  at 
such  a  time,  with  her  grandfather's  wishes  fresh 
in  her  dutiful  mind,  she  had  yielded  to  the 
lover's  importunity.  There  might  have  been  even 
some  sort  of  a  love  scene.  His  impatient  eager- 
ness to  see  Emma  and  learn  what  had  happened 
contended  with  the  necessity  of  seeming  calmness 
and  indifference. 

It  was  not  long  before  'Bije  splashed  past  the 


316  STORK'S   NEST 

window  on  his  powerful  black  mare,  shouting 
his  usual  signal :  "  Whoop-ee !  whoop-ee !  " 

Silas  arose  hastily  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 
Jim  looked  after  him  wildly  and,  as  soon  as  he 
was  gone,  said  excitedly:  "I  air  that  charged 
with  secrets  I  feel  nigh  to  bustin'.  I've  got  to 
have  the  chance  to  speak  out ! " 

"  Careful,  Jim ! "  whispered  Mrs.  Stork,  who 
felt  a  sisterly  sympathy  in  Jim's  outbursts. 

Silas  ran  back  to  them  as  if  afraid  to  lose  their 
company  for  a  moment.  "  He's  gone,"  he  said, 
reseating  himself  and  casting  a  sharp  glance  at 
Jim.  But  Jim's  face  was  impassive.  "  Well,  it's 
rainin'  awful,  I  do  say.  But  rain  or  shine,  man 
must  dine.  Jim,  I  would  n't  take  no  more  of  that 
salt  r'isin'.  If  yous  died  with  a  overloaded 
stomick  I'd  be  'shamed  to  call  in  a  doctor  to  wait 
on  yous,  an'  him  findin'  your  in'ards  stuffed  like 
link  sausage." 

Jim's  mouth  flew  open,  but  Letitia  Stork, 
otherwise  "  Crishy,"  interposed:  "  I  hain't  findin' 
no  fault  with  the  weather.  If  the  weather  was  all 
that  tormented  me  I'd  jest  say  '  Come  rain,  come 
snow.'  " 

"Now,  Crishy,  honey,"  remonstrated  Silas, 
"  can't  yous  work  up  a  contented  sperit?  Look  at 
me.  If  woman  won't  take  man  as  her  standard 
what's  the  use  of  your  Bible?  " 

"  Mr.  Stork's  decision  to  go  away,"  remarked 
Benton  dryly,  "  seems  a  very  sudden  one,  Mr. 


GATHERING    IN    THE   NET      317 

Silas.  You  think  he  will  begin  building  im- 
mediately?" 

"  I  guess  so,  brother.  An'  bein'  sudden  don't 
mitigate  his  seriousness.  'Bije  is  always  sudden, 
but  no  more  discount  to  him  on  that  account  than 
on  tornadoes.  Them's  sudden,  too.  Yap.  Cert. 
Sure." 

*  You  think  he  will  be  gone  a  month,  perhaps?  " 

"  A  full  month,  brother.  He's  off  to  St.  Louis, 
now,  an'  from  that,  Chicawgo.  Law,  me!  Chi- 
cawgo  hain't  nothin'  to  a  character  like  my  brother 
'Bije.  Why!  he  would  n't  be  skeered  of  New 
York,  nor  like  'nough  of  Boston  itself !  " 

"  Si,"  cried  Jim  Whitlicks,  starting  up  from 
the  table,  "  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't!  Thar  comes 
a  time,  Silas  Stork." 

"  Why,  Jim ! "  cried  Mrs.  Stork  uneasily, 
"what's  the  matter?" 

Jim  gulped  down  his  impetuous  rush  of  words 
and  strangled.  Evidently  more  than  usual  fear 
restrained  him. 

"  Go  on,  Jim,  go  on,  dear  boy,"  said  Silas, 
combing  his  heavy  beard  with  his  long  fingers  and 
watching  the  youth  narrowly.  "Thar  comes  a 
time — which?  Go  ahead,  brother,  go  ahead!" 

"  When  I  can't  stay  here  eatin',"  cried  Jim,  with 
sudden  inspiration,  "  knowin'  an  feelin'  a  live  flea 
gambolin'  up  an'  down  my  leg.  I've  got  to  go  an' 
sot  him  free."  And  he  retired  precipitately  from 
the  room. 


3i 8  STORK'S   NEST 

Silas,  bland  and  smiling,  leaned  his  arms  in 
their  red  striped  shirt  sleeves,  and  remarked: 
"  Well,  say  what  yous  will  of  fleas, — an'  much  can 
be  said  one  way  or  another, — though  it's  one  case 
whar  words  don't  reach  the  p'int,  but  that  thar  flea 
to  which  Jim  were  subject  have  saved  us  one  slice  of 
bread  for  breakfast !  " 

Benton  felt  a  sickening  revulsion  at  sight  of  the 
urbane  miser.  Mrs.  Stork's  show  of  sympathy 
for  Jim  caused  the  young  man's  heart  to  go  out 
toward  the  hard-worked  wife,  the  flowers  of 
whose  nature  had  been  dwarfed  and  blighted  by 
cruel  privations.  He  wondered  what  she  might 
have  become  in  a  home  of  liberality  and  love.  He 
sought  to  imagine  her  as  a  fresh,  sweet  maiden 
like  Emma,  standing  at  the  altar,  the  visions  of  a 
happy  life  dancing  before  her  eyes.  But,  alas ! 
when  he  looked  at  the  spare,  bent  form,  the 
drooping  head,  the  gray  streaked  hair,  the  knobby 
feet,  his  imagination  threw  down  its  brush.  Thus 
Emma  Garrett  might  become  if  married  to 
'Bije.  In  one  moment  his  heart  glowed  with  hope 
at  the  memory  of  her  promise  not  to  marry  the 
twin.  At  the  next,  it  thrilled  with  the  recollection 
of  the  scene  under  the  catalpa  tree.  At  the  next, 
'Bije's  boast  of  to-day's  conquest  sounded  in  his 
ears.  If  she,  knowing  Hiram's  wish,  had  suf- 
fered herself  to  be  over-persuaded! — he  arose 
impatiently. 

They  had  eaten  dinner  in  the  kitchen,    As  Mrs. 


GATHERING   IN    THE   NET      319 

Stork  cleaned  the  dishes,  Silas  and  Jim  stood  in 
the  dining-room  watching  the  rain.  Jim  stood  at 
a  closed  window  writing  upon  the  pane  with  the 
end  of  a  toothpick.  Benton  watched  him  with 
abstracted  gaze,  but  Jim  did  not  turn  his  head.  At 
last  the  young  man  went  to  his  room,  hoping  the 
lad  would  follow  him,  but  in  this  he  was  dis- 
appointed. For  a  time  he  paced  his  room 
restlessly,  impatient  of  the  creeping  hands  of  his 
watch.  The  day  seemed  to  stand  still.  When 
the  thought  of  Silas's  company  ceased  to  be  less 
disagreeable  than  solitude,  he  opened  the  door. 
At  that  moment  came  a  soft,  grating  sound  from 
the  Snake  Room.  Benton's  face  flashed  a  look 
of  triumphant  hope  and  surprise.  After  all,  'Bije 
had  deceived  them  and  had  crept  back  to  his  room 
while  all  were  at  the  table.  Benton  went  below, 
exultant.  Jim  still  stood  at  the  closed  window, 
writing  upon  the  pane. 

"Wish  Tobe  would  hurry  up  an'  come,"  said 
Silas,  at  last  breaking  the  silence,  and  looking  up. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Benton  suddenly,  "  while 
'Tobe  is  away  with  the  cattle  who  will  stay  with 
Mrs.  Tuckermore?" 

"  They  don't  need  nobody,"  returned  Silas 
genially.  "  Mrs.  Tuckermorels  as  bold  as  a  lion, 
to  say  nothin'  of  Emmy  for  a  Daniel.  However, 
I  reckon  Bud  Tuckermore  air  enough.  If  he 
ain't,  I'll  have  Jim  go  over  thar,  after  loadin'. 
He'll  be  a  David,  I  do  expect," 


320  STORK'S   NEST 

Jim  screwed  up  one  eye  painfully  for  Benton's 
benefit,  and  continued  to  trace  invisible  letters 
over  the  glass. 

"  I  hear  Tobe's  hoss  squarshin'  along,  now," 
said  Silas  presently.  "  We'd  better  go  git  our 
hosses,  too." 

"  Come  on,  Jim,"  said  Benton. 

"Jim  ain't  comin',"  said  Silas  kindly.  "He 
hain't  strong  enough  to  venture  out  in  no  such 
Noah's  flood  as  this  here.  You  an'  me,  Ben, 
has  a  ark  of  good  health  to  ride  in.  Come, 
brother!" 

A  presentiment  seemed  to  warn  Benton  not  to 
leave  Jim.  He  looked  back  at  the  forlorn  youth. 
Jim  caught  his  eye  and  pointed  to  the  window 
pane,  upon  which  he  had  been  marking.  Benton 
stared,  wondering  at  the  other's  behavior. 

"Here  we  air,"  shouted  Tobe  Tuckermore 
from  the  yard.  "Bud  an'  me  is  too  wet  to 


come  in." 


Silas  and  Benton  went  outdoors,  pulling  their 
rubber  coats  up  about  their  necks.  Benton  went 
after  the  horses  and  Silas  returned  to  the  front 
door,  where  the  orphan  made  a  doleful  picture  on 
the  threshold. 

"  Now,  Jim,  I  want  yous  to  go  up  to  your 
room  an'  not  stick  your  nose  out  of  thar  till  the 
clock  strikes  eight.  Then  yous  come  down  an' 
saddle  Billy  an'  go  git  them  lean  cattle  in  the  fur 
pasture,  an' — now  yous  listen,  brother.  You 


GATHERING    IN    THE   NET      321 

done  it  at  the  door;  now  do  it  in  the  open!  But 
brother,  how  yous  could  listen  at  a  door  is  more'n 
I  can  understan' !  " 

"  It's  the  best  way  I  knowed  to  get  it  fust 
handed,"  said  Jim  sullenly. 

"Well,  how  much  you  heerd  I  can't  say," 
remarked  Silas,  "but  if  yous  leak  a  word  of  what 
yous  heerd — yous  know  'Bije!  " 

"Which  I  guess  he  hain't  so  very  fur  away, 
nuther,"  said  Jim  defiantly. 

"  Near  or  fur,"  said  Silas  with  composure,  "  one 
thin'  is  sure — I  mean  your  pa's  ghost.  So  take 
care,  for  he  walks  this  night.  Now  listen  atten- 
tive; life  an'  death  depen's  on  it.  You  drive  them 
lean  cattle  back  an'  forth  at  the  ford  till  yous 
know  it's  safe  for  a  heavy  wagon  to  cross.  Under- 
stan'?  I  mean  a  very  heavy  wagon  an'  mules." 

"  I  understan'  mighty  well,"  flashed  Jim.  "  I 
understan'  better'n  yous  think!  " 

"  Then  yous  perform  it,"  said  Silas.  "  If  yous 
don't,  'Bije  will  come — from  fur  or  near — an' 
'he'll  perform  on  yous  till  you'll  think  yous  air 
a  hard-actioned  planner  which  it  air  necessary, 
they  do  tell  me,  to  strike  pow'ful  hard  to  draw 
any  music  outen  it.  Up  stairs  now,  brother;  an' 
Crishy  is  set  watch  to  see  yous  don't  stick  that 
nose  out  the  door.  Take  that  nose  up,  Jim,  an' 
remember  I'm  comin'  back  bimeby,  an'  remem- 
ber, if  'Bije  air  near  at  hand,  so  much  the  less 
nose  need  be  out  of  your  room  till  eight!  " 


322  STORK'S   NEST 

Benton  brought  horses  for  himself  and  Silas. 
As  the  cattle  were  slowly  driven  toward  the 
railroad  siding,  the  rain  gradually  slackened  and 
at  last  ceased.  The  clouds,  however,  did  not  clear 
away.  Silas  was  unusually  silent  and,  for  the  most 
part,  nothing  broke  the  silence  save  the  splashing 
and  trampling  of  hoofs,  the  occasional  bellowing 
of  the  steers,  and  the  shouts  and  cracking  of  whips 
from  the  four  drovers.  When  they  reached  the 
halfway  sign  Silas  suddenly  remarked: 

"  Bless  my  soul,  an1  yourn  too,  brothers-all,  if 
I  hain't  forgot  a  most  important  engagement! 
Why!  as  I  live,  I've  got  to  go  back  home  this 
blessed  minute!  But  Tobe,  you  V  Ben  can  take 
care  of  ever'thin',"  he  added  heartily,  ignoring 
the  looks  of  surprise.  "  Bud,  are  you  goin'  to 
Chicawgo  with  your  pap?" 

"  I'm  goin',  cert,"  said  Bud. 

"  Well,  luck  to  you-all.  See  yous  later." 
Silas  gave  his  horse  a  cut  and  splashed  away  at  a 
gallop. 

"Now,"  commented  Tobe,  gazing  after  the 
horseman,  "that's  sa'prisin'.  Somebody  say  it 
ain't!" 

"  That  engagement  of  his'n  is  in  my  eye,"  said 
Bud.  "  He's  thought  of  some  way  of  savin'  a 
copper,  I  do  expect." 

"  It  will  make  everything  easier,"  Benton  said 
thoughtfully,  "  if  he  and  'Bije  are  together.  I 
know  'Bije  is  at  home.  If  Silas  had  stayed  with 


GATHERING    IN    THE   NET      323 

us,  there  must  have  been  violence  before  we  could 
have  joined  Hicky  and  the  sheriff.  Still,  with 
those  two  men  together,  plotting,  it  may  be " 

"  We'll  get  this  bunch  of  cattle  to  the  pen  as 
quick  as  they'll  bear  drivin',"  said  Tobe.  Benton 
urged  on  the  steers,  oppressed  by  the  same  pre- 
sentiment which  had  counseled  him  not  to  leave 
Jim.  Each  mile  which  separated  him  from  Stork's 
Nest  seemed  to  stretch  between  him  and  hope. 
What  did  he  fear?  Nothing.  And  yet  he  feared 
for  himself,  for  Jim,  for  Emma.  He  found  it 
impossible  to  shake  off  his  gloomy  despondency. 
Silas's  sudden  return  home  assumed  a  sinister 
meaning.  Jim's  significant  wink  came  to  him 
again  and  again.  'Bije  was  hiding  in  his  myste- 
rious bedroom.  What  could  be  his  object?  Might 
it  not  in  some  way  be  associated  with  Emma  ?  As 
the  day  rapidly  declined  and  darkness  crept  upon 
them,  he  seemed  to  see  Jim  writing  upon  the 
window  pane.  ,  If  he  could  know  what  he  had 
written  there,  perhaps  his  fears  would  prove 
groundless.  Had  the  orphan  scribbled  something 
about  his  diseases  ?_  Or  had  he  written  a  warning? 
— a  hint? 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  came  to  the  cattle- 
pen  at  the  railroad  siding.  -;  Red  and  green  lights 
twinkled  far  up  the  track.  They  were  in  the  open 
country  with  no  place  of  refuge  should  the  rain 
recommence.  The  cattle  turned  away  from  the 
open  gate  and  started  on  a  run  down  the  track. 


324  STORK'S   NEST 

The  men  floundered  over  sunken  ties  and  through 
ditches  in  their  efforts  to  head  them  off  with  little 
loss  of  time.  The  darkness  of  the  prairie  seemed 
to  press  upon  their  way,  threatening  to  swallow 
the  herd,  while  the  colored  lights  watched  like 
sinister  eyes. 

'  We're  losin'  precious  time !  "  groaned  Tobe. 
"  Head  'em  thar,  Bud,  they're  breakin'  through 
again." 

"Look  out,  Bud!"  shouted  Benton,  as  the 
other  suddenly  vanished  in  the  night,  "  they're 
coming  dead  at  you ! " 

"  Stan'  on  t'other  side  the  gate !  "  shouted 
Tobe.  "Did  he  go  in?"  ' 

The  head  steer  paused  at  the  threshold  and 
sniffed,  then  threw  down  his  head  and  wheeled. 
Bud  began  to  lash  him  furiously  in  the  eyes. 
Bawling  with  rage  and  pain,  he  floundered  upon 
his  knees,  then  twirled  in  a  semi-circle  and  rushed 
into  the  cattle-pen.  The  herd  followed.  Bud 
with  a  great  shout  slid  the  gate  shut. 

"  Good-by,  Bud,"  said  Tobe  hurriedly.  "  Me  V 
Ben  have  to  leave  you  here.  Train  '11  be  along 
purty  soon.  Never  see  me  ag'in,  Bud,  tell  the  ole 
woman  I  thought  of  her." 

"All  right,"  responded  Bud,  wringing  his 
hand.  "Take  care  of  yourself.  Don't  let  'Bije 
git  the  drop  on  you." 

Tobe  and  Benton  galloped  away  at  utmost 
speed.  At  the  halfway  sign  they  separated,  Tobe 


GATHERING   IN    THE   NET      325 

taking  the  road  for  Laclede  Station,  there  to  join 
Hicky  and  the  sheriff,  Benton  holding  on  his 
homeward  way.  The  fleetness  of  the  horse 
which  sent  the  mud  flying  about  Benton's  head 
increased  his  impatient  desire  to  reach  Stork's 
Nest  and  see  with  his  own  eyes  if  Jim  were 
safe. 

It  was  after  eight  when  he  drew  rein  at  the  road- 
gate.  He  hurried  to  the  house  afoot,  that  he  need 
not  pause  to  lift  the  heavy  gates.  He  burst  into 
the  house  noisily. 

A  faint  cry  came  from  the  dining-room  and  the 
door  was  opened  hastily.  "Why,  Ben!"  cried 
Mrs.  Stork.  "What  on  airth?" 

"Where  are  Silas  and  Jim?"  cried  Benton,  not 
pausing  in  his  hurry  up  the  stairs. 

"  All  gone,"  answered  the  other.  "  They  left 
here  about  half  an  hour  ago." 

Benton,  mad  with  impatience,  flung  open  his 
room  door,  but  it  was  empty.  The  Snake  Room 
stood  open.  He  ran  in,  striking  a  match  as  he  did 
so.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  ordinary 
furniture  of  a  bachelor's  bedroom.  The  front 
room  also  stood  open  but  no  one  was  within.  Mrs. 
Stork  had  evidently  spoken  the  truth.  But  where 
had  they  gone?  What  did  they  mean  to  do?  He 
rushed  below,  but  Mrs.  Stork  could  not,  or  would 
not,  answer  any  of  his  questions. 

"  They  put  out  together,"  she  persisted;  "  that's 
all  I  know." 


326  STORK'S   NEST 

Baffled,  still  filled  with  nameless  fears  and  tor- 
mented by  enforced  waiting,  Benton  snatched  up 
the  lamp  from  the  dining-room  table  and  carried 
it  to  the  window.  He  stared  at  the  pane,  upon 
which  the  orphan  had  seemed  to  write,  but  it  was 
perfectly  clear  and  revealed  nothing  save  the 
blackness  of  the  night. 

"  Ben,"  said  Mrs.  Stork,  with  an  unwonted  note 
of  kindness  in  her  voice,  "  You'd  better  git. 
They'd  be  awful  trouble  if  they  came  an'  foun' 
yous  here." 

"  So  'Bije  is  here,  is  he ! "  remarked  Benton 
dryly. 

"  I  hain't  nothin'  to  tell  yous !  "  she  returned. 

The  plan  had  apparently  failed.  When  Tobe, 
Hicky  and  the  others  came,  they  would  find  that 
the  twins  had  fled.  They  must  have  carried  Jim 
away,  he  reflected,  to  prevent  him  from  betraying 
them.  Still,  they  were  somewhere  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Bud  would  shut  off  escape  at  the  railroad 
siding  and  Laclede  Station  was  guarded.  And  he 
must  remain  to  guard  the  home. 

Suddenly  the  black  window  pane  gave  him  a 
new  thought.  Jim  might  have  left  a  message  for 
him.  He  ran  upstairs,  carrying  the  lamp.  No 
significant  scrap  of  paper  was  visible,  but,  of 
course,  if  Jim  had  written,  he  would  not  have 
dared  place  the  note  where  'Bije  or  Silas  could 
see  it.  Benton  hurried  instinctively  to  his  Bible 
and  opened  it  with  trembling  fingers.  A  blank 


GATHERING    IN    THE   NET      327 

memorandum  leaf  torn  from  some  almanac  flut- 
tered to  the  floor.  He  snatched  it  up  and  holding 
it  to  the  lamp  read  in  small  cramped  characters: 
they  ar  goin  to  bury  thur  money  under  shaggs 
cabin  an  he  air  goin  te  kerry  of  emmy  on  is  hoss 
an  mek  her  marry  im. 


XX 

BENTON    ENCOUNTERS 
"THE    GHOST" 

A  soon  as  Benton  had  read  the  message  he 
dashed  from  the  house  and  hurried  through 
the  yard  and  pasture  to  his  horse.  Not  for 
a  moment  did  he  doubt  the  truth  of  Jim's  state- 
ment. It  was  not  the  burial  of  the  money  under  the 
old  deserted  cabin  beyond  Grand  River  that  most 
excited  Benton;  it  was  the  allusion  to  Emma.  It 
was  'Bije's  intention  to  elope  with  the  girl,  to  force 
her  to  mount  his  horse  and  to  compel  her  to  marry 
him!  The  young  man's  blood  boiled  as  he 
spurred  his  horse  along  the  heavy  road.  He  now 
knew  'Bije's  boast  of  winning  Emma's  consent  had 
been  false  and  that  she  had  adhered  to  her  reso- 
lution not  to  marry  the  giant.  'Bije  in  his  des- 
peration had  resolved  to  force  her  to  his  will. 
Benton  pictured  to  himself  the  burly  farmer 
riding  up  to  the  Tuckermore  house.  No  one 
would  be  at  home  but  Mrs.  Tuckermore  and 
Emma.  The  entrance  would  be  effected  as  that 
of  a  friend  and  everything  would  yield  to  'Bije's 
might.  Benton  sought  to  increase  his  speed 
toward  the  scene,  but  the  weary  horse  could  go  no 

328 


BENTON   ENCOUNTERS    "GHOST"  329 

faster.  Here  and  there  the  road  was  in  a  miser- 
able condition;  culverts  were  threatening  to  give 
away,  washouts  making  passage  dangerous,  sudden 
pools  splashed  about  the  horse's  knees.  It  was 
intensely  dark  and  the  rider  was  unable  to  choose 
the  best  parts  of  the  road.  Often  the  horse 
floundered  in  deep  mud  through  which  a  wagon 
could  scarcely  have  been  drawn.  The  young  man 
felt  keenly  his  unfamiliarity  with  the  roads  and 
was  obliged  to  confide  to  the  animal's  instinct. 
When  he  found  himself  almost  brought  to  a  stand- 
still he  tried  to  find  comfort  in  the  thought  that 
the  money  was  to  be  buried  first,  after  which  the 
abduction  would  be  attempted.  By  that  time,  he 
would  surely  be  at  the  Tuckermore's,  prepared  to 
defend  Emma  with  his  life.  The  way  was  not 
far,  but  deep  pools  delayed  his  progress  wherever 
nature  had  held  a  cup  to  the  recent  rain. 

He  had  reached  the  slight  elevation  where  the 
course  led  over  a  welcome  ridge  of  shelving  rock, 
when  his  eyes  were  attracted  by  a  distant  glimmer 
in  the  wood  on  his  left.  It  was  a  fire,  so  far  from 
the  road  that  its  light  trembled  as  if  about 
to  expire  at  a  breath.  Benton  wondered  that 
campers  should  select  this  night  for  sleeping  in 
the  wood  and  he  fancied  it  must  have  been  difficult 
for  them  to  secure  dry  wood  to  burn.  But  in 
quick  succession  came  other  thoughts  which 
caused  him  to  check  his  horse  abruptly.  Jim  had 
been  ordered  to  cut  a  quantity  of  extra  wood  that 


330  STORK'S   NEST 

morning,  before  the  funeral;  he  had  complained 
to  Benton  of  the  task;  Hiram  Garrett  had  told  of 
the  ghost  disappearing  in  a  cloud  of  flame.  Could 
it  be  that  Jim's  chopping  had  been  for  the  benefit 
of  the  ghost?  and  was  it  not  possible  that  the 
ghost  was  even  now  hovering  over  his  fire  ?  And 
if  the  ghost  were  there,  certainly  'Bije  Stork  was 
not  far  away !  Benton  felt  sure  that  he  had  solved 
the  mystery  of  the  fire.  He  came  to  a  determina- 
tion to  confront  'Bije  before  the  attempt  at 
abduction. 

Springing  to  the  ground,  he  led  the  horse  to  a 
tree  and  secured  him,  then  set  out  on  a  run  toward 
the  fire.  He  lost  it  several  times,  but  each  upward 
dip  of  the  land  brought  it  to  view.  He  gave  no 
heed  to  the  brambles  which  tore  his  hands  and 
face.  With  outstretched  arms  he  felt  his  way 
among  the  slippery  trees,  stumbled  and  fell  in  the 
mushy  path,  which  was  half  under  water,  rose  with 
undiminished  resolution  and  pressed  on.  At  last 
the  fire  was  so  near  that  he  was  forced  to  use 
caution  in  his  advance,  and  he  grimly  congratu- 
lated himself  that  there  was  not  a  twig  dry  enough 
to  snap. 

Near  the  fire  stood  the  ghost.  Only  a  glance 
was  needed  to  tell  Benton  that  it  was  the  mysteri- 
ous Hezzie  Whitlicks.  Near  him  Jkn's  wood 
had  been  carelessly  thrown;  a  large  part  of  it  was 
already  consumed.  As  the  young  man  stared  from 
a  safe  nook,  the  floating  red  hair  and  enormous  red 


BENTON   ENCOUNTERS    "GHOST"  331 

whiskers,  the  blue  trousers  and  black  shirt  did  not 
impose  upon  his  credulity.  Hezzie  Whitlicks, 
when  not  acting  the  part  of  a  phantom,  went  by 
the  name  of  'Bije  Stork!  The  head  was  effectually 
disguised;  but  every  movement  of  the  enormous 
body  was  characteristic  of  the  twin.  Benton 
wondered  he  had  not  sooner  suspected  the  truth. 
His  theory  of  an  escaped  criminal  had  satisfied  his 
mind,  engaged  as  it  had  been  with  other  and  much 
deeper  interests.  He  had  seen  Hezzie  Whitlicks 
before  he  had  met  'Bije,  hence  he  had  been  the 
more  easily  deceived.  Even  now,  in  spite  of  the 
evidence  of  the  cut  wood,  and  in  spite  of  the  move- 
ments of  body  and  head,  it  was  difficult  to  trace 
the  farmer's  likeness  in  the  grotesque  make-up  of 
the  ghost. 

The  ghost  was  busily  engaged,  but,  as  he  stood 
between  Benton  and  his  task,  and  as  he  was  not 
transparent, — for  even  ghosts  are  different  in  real 
life  from  ghosts  in  stories, — it  was  impossible  to 
discover  what  he  was  doing.  Benton  strained  his 
eyes;  he  moved  cautiously  to  another  point  of 
observation,  but  the  fire  half  blinded  him  and  the 
giant  form  stood  between  him  and  the  mystery. 
Hezzie  was  in  a  hurry  and,  from  time  to  time,  he 
uttered  below  his  voice  such  words  as  only  a  very 
wicked  ghost  might  employ.  Benton  dared  not 
creep  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  fire  for  fear 
of  being  heard.  He  therefore  waited  and  in  a 
few  minutes  Hezzie's  work  was  done.  Benton 


332  STORK'S   NEST 

heard  the  hissing  of  hot  metal  in  water.  Then  a 
coarse,  heavy  bag  was  shaken  in  the  air  and  placed 
upon  the  ground.  It  was  filled.  There  came  the 
rattle  of  coin. 

Suddenly  the  ghost,  with  a  skillful  twist,  tied  up 
the  bag  and,  throwing  it  over  his  shoulder, 
snatched  up  a  spade  which  had  lain  beside  a  long, 
dark  object — the  coffin.  He  began  to  extinguish 
the  fire  by  casting  dirt  upon  it  while  the  heavy  bag 
swayed  upon  his  back.  So  wild  and  grotesque  was 
the  picture  formed  in  the  blackness  of  the  night 
that  Benton  might,  some  months  ago,  have  half 
believed  the  huge  form  would  presently  leap  into 
the  coffin  and  vanish,  bag  and  all.  But  now  all 
was  different  with  him.  He  saw  simply  a  counter- 
feiter who  had  formed  a  plan  to  carry  off  Emma. 
He  felt  that  this  was  the  time  to  frustrate  the  plan 
and,  without  further  hesitation,  he  rushed  into  the 
circle  of  light.,  straight  toward  his  enemy. 

'Bije's  back  had  been  toward  him,  but  in  an 
instant  the  great  form  whirled  about  and  the  young 
man  was  discovered. 

"  You  rogue !  you  counterfeiter !  "  cried  Benton. 

'Bije  with  an  oath  swung  the  heavy  bag  above 
his  false  hair  and  hurled  it  at  the  approaching 
form.  It  barely  missed  Benton's  head.  'Bije 
grasped  the  spade  with  a  murderous  glare  and 
waited.  The  young  man,  apparently  lost  to  rea- 
son, seemed  rushing  upon  certain  destruction. 
'Bije  brought  down  the  blade  of  the  instrument 


BENTON   ENCOUNTERS    "GHOST"  333 

with  a  savage  snarl,  but  at  that  moment  Benton 
swerved  aside  and  the  iron  edge  sank  in  the  soft 
ground.  Benton  leaped  upon  'Bije  from  the  side 
and  tore  the  spade  from  the  other's  hand.  They 
locked  in  a  terrible  embrace,  struggling  and  writh- 
ing back  and  forth  over  the  slippery  wire  grass. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  Intense  silence,  in- 
tense darkness  surrounded  the  little  circle  of  light. 
The  fire,  for  want  of  fresh  fuel,  was  sinking  to  a 
dull  bed  of  coals.  Its  glare  was  no  longer  vivid 
upon  the  faces  of  the  combatants.  Benton,  filled 
with  the  new  strength  of  his  hardy  life,  and 
stronger  still  from  his  love  for  Emma,  held  his 
own  well.  But  he  soon  found  it  would  not  be  in 
his  power  to  throw  'Bije  to  the  ground  and  that 
his  resistance  must  presently  succumb.  He  felt, 
with  a  despairing  heart,  that  soon  he  would  be  out 
of  Bije's  way,  either  dead  or  disabled,  and  that, 
in  spite  of  his  utmost,  Emma  would  be  in  the 
counterfeiter's  power.  All  that  remained  was  to 
protract  the  struggle  as  long  as  possible.  With 
the  bitterness  of  helpless  rage,  he  reproached  him- 
self for  endangering  Emma  by  thus  seeking  to 
oppose  a  man  so  much  stronger  than  himself. 
Thus  his  resistance  to  'Bije  had  always  terminated. 
Brute  strength  seemed  bound  to  triumph  over  in- 
nocence. 

'Bije,  who  never  relaxed  his  fierce  grip,  never 
giving  an  inch,  never  speaking  a  word,  presently 
felt  the  resistance  of  the  younger  man  giving  way. 


334  STORK'S   NEST 

Benton's  breath  grew  labored.  At  length  it  came 
in  quick,  painful  gasps.  He  felt  his  body  grow  limp 
in  the  bear-like  embrace.  Suddenly  his  leg  was 
kicked  viciously  from  under  him.  He  fell  heavily, 
with  'Bije  upon  him.  There  was  a  moment's 
pause  in  the  struggle.  The  young  man  lay  help- 
less. He  expected  to  hear  angry  curses,  bitter 
reproaches.  But  the  other  was  mute. 

After  this  brief  pause,  which  suggested  inde- 
cision on  'Bije's  part,  as  if  he  were  debating  with 
the  thought  of  mercy,  the  heavy  hand  shot 
toward  Benton's  throat.  An  irresistible  vise  closed 
upon  his  windpipe.  Benton  gasped,  choked 
and  lay  still  in  agony.  The  fingers  relaxed  and  the 
young  man  panted  heavily,  but  uttered  no  plea  for 
mercy.  For  a  few  moments  he  breathed  rapidly 
while  the  heavy  knee  rested  upon  his  breast.  'Bije 
watched  him.  Benton,  his  face  still  a  faint  purple 
from  suffocation,  glared  up,  unconquered. 

The  victor  hesitated.  There  was  but  one  way 
to  remove  the  witness  of  his  guilt  and  at  the  same 
time  to  dispose  of  the  man  who  had  won  Emma 
from  him.  And  yet  'Bije,  remorseless  as  he  had 
proved,  shrank  from  this  crime.  He  hated  the 
young  man  who  lay  beneath  his  knee  with  that 
imperious  hatred  which  those  accustomed  to  com- 
mand feel  for  the  one  who  ventures  opposition. 
The  very  sight  of  his  helplessness  had  tightened 
the  fingers  upon  the  throat.  He  wished  he  had 
held  them  there  a  little  longer.  Time  was  very 


BENTON   ENCOUNTERS    "GHOST"  335 

precious  just  now,  yet  he  allowed  it  to  slip  by  while 
he  fought  against  his  better  self. 

For  a  time  nothing  broke  the  stillness  but 
Benton's  labored  breathing.  Suddenly  all  was 
changed  as  by  magic.  Into  the  light  of  the  dying 
fire  sprang  the  dark  forms  of  men  crying: 
"Surrender!" 

In  an  instant,  'Bije  was  upon  his  feet  and 
Benton,  relieved  from  the  cruel  pressure,  struggled 
from  the  ground.  Six  men  silently  confronted 
the  counterfeiter,  their  weapons  leveled  at  his 
breast.  They  stood  in  sturdy  contrast  to  his  wild 
and  bewildered  uncertainty,  their  aim  deliberate 
and  sure.  But  in  a  moment,  'Bije  was  all  agility 
and  cunning.  With  a  great  leap  he  snatched  up 
the  spade,  then  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  Put  up  them  hands!"  shouted  Hicky  Price. 

"Don't  shoot!"  came  the  deep  voice  of  the 
county  sheriff. 

In  rising,  Benton  had  placed  himself  in  the  line 
of  their  aim.  'Bije  noted  the  fateful  moment  of 
indecision.  With  a  magnificent  leap  he  sprang 
straight  toward  them,  brandishing  the  spade  above 
his  head.  At  sight  of  such  daring  and  ferocity  it 
was  impossible  for  them  to  prevent  a  feeling  of 
shrinking  alarm ;  but  they  stood  their  ground. 

"  Fire !  "  came  the  sheriff's  brief  command.  At 
that  instant  the  huge  form  fell  flat  upon  the 
ground,  the  outstretched  spade  cutting  viciously 
at  the  legs  of  the  nearest  man.  The  bullets 


336  STORK'S   NEST 

whistled  above  his  prostrate  form  and  Benton, 
catching  up  the  bag  of  counterfeit  money,  hurled 
it  at  'Bije's  head. 

He  was  just  an  instant  too  late.  At  the  crash 
of  firearms,  the  giant  had  gained  his  feet.  Whirl- 
ing the  spade  above  his  head,  with  demoniacal  fury 
in  his  black  eyes,  he  rushed  among  the  men,  scat- 
tering them  to  right  and  left,  and  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  woods  before  they  had  recovered  from 
the  onslaught.  The  bullets  which  sped  after  the 
crashing  footsteps  were  in  vain.  Tobe's  face  was 
ghastly  from  a  wound  inflicted  by  the  edge  of  the 
spade  which  had  cut  open  his  cheek. 

"  Ben,"  he  said,  as  he  hastily  bound  up  the 
wound  with  his  handkerchief,  "  'most  did  for, 
was  n't  you?" 

"  Run  him  down! "  came  the  deep  voice  of  the 
sheriff. 

"No  use,"  said  Hicky,  "nobody  could  n't  run 
'Bije  down  in  his  woods.  Ever'body  make  hot 
tracks  for  Stork's  Nest.  He  can't  run  as  fast  as 
we  can  ride.  Hurry — hurry!  " 

With  almost  incredible  rapidity  the  scene  had 
changed  again  and  again.  One  moment  Benton 
had  lain  at  'Bije's  mercy,  the  next  moment  'Bije 
stood  with  six  pistols  leveled  at  his  breast.  There 
had  been  the  gigantic  leap,  the  crash  of  weapons, 
the  furious  hissing  of  the  spade,  the  sudden  spurt 
of  blood  from  Tobe's  cheek,  and  the  vanishing 
footsteps  of  the  counterfeiter.  Now  the  men  pre- 


BENTON   ENCOUNTERS    "GHOST"  337 

pared  to  dash  for  their  horses,  but  first  there  was 
a  hasty  examination  of  the  tools  'Bije  had  left 
behind.  Another  form  entered  the  clearing,  but  no 
one  showed  surprise  except  Benton. 

"  Emma !  "  he  exclaimed  in  amazement.  The 
dying  embers  but  partially  revealed  the  short 
skirt,  the  bare  arms,  the  careless  hair.  In  the 
semi-gloom  there  was  but  a  suggestion  of  gleam- 
ing threads  in  the  dusky  locks.  The  head  was  in 
shadow,  but  the  indistinct  profile  was  sufficient  to 
recall  the  rich  beauty  of  face  and  neck  which  the 
dull  glow  of  the  fire  sullenly  refused  to  paint.  It 
was  a  picture  of  bright  dashes  and  black  blur — one 
to  excite  the  imagination  to  the  utmost,  one  to 
thrill  the  heart  of  him  who  had  grown  to  love  its 
most  imperfect  detail.  One  of  the  men,  a 
stranger  to  Benton,  stepped  at  once  to  her  side 
with  an  air  of  ownership. 

Emma,  who  was  intensely  excited,  failed  to 
notice  Benton's  greeting.  Turning  to  the  others, 
she  cried  as  her  musical  voice  trembled  with  some- 
thing like  laughter  and  something  like  anger: 

"Well,  I  brought  you  to  'Bije,  but  I  could  n't 
hold  him  for  you !  " 

There  was  a  rush  for  the  horses,  which  the  men 
had  left  at  some  distance  from  the  fire,  and 
Benton  found  himself  beside  the  girl,  her  hand 
in  his. 

"  I'm  awful  glad,"  she  panted,  as  they  made 
their  way  through  the  mud.  "  I  know  you  was 


338  STORK'S   NEST 

fightin'  for  me,  Ben.  You  are  just  as  brave  as — 
as  me!" 

No  more  could  be  said  for  some  time.  There 
was  an  excited  tingling  of  the  blood  as  the  men 
ran  to  their  horses  and  mounted.  One  of  them, 
the  stranger,  kept  beside  Emma  and  would  have 
helped  her  to  mount  if  Benton  had  not 
forestalled  him. 

"  Ben,"  panted  Emma,  "  this  is  my  St.  Louis 
uncle.  He's  come !  "  Her  voice  rang  with  tri- 
umph. When  she  was  upon  her  horse  she  cried: 
"  Now  for  war.  Is  n't  this  just  glorious !  " 

They  plunged  through  the  darkness,  Benton  on 
one  side  of  Emma,  the  stranger  from  St.  Louis  on 
the  other.  The  young  man's  surprise  at  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Grand  River  girl  was  soon  gone.  Too 
many  events,  out  of  the  ordinary,  had  followed  each 
other  that  day  without  giving  pause  for  one 
to  reflect  upon  their  consequences.  He  took 
unmeasured  delight  from  the  consciousness  of  her 
being  so  near  and,  though  it  was  too  dark  to  dis- 
tinguish her  face,  her  form  was  darkly  outlined 
against  the  brooding  trees.  As  the  men  galloped 
through  the  night,  each  form  grim  and  menacing 
as  ministers  of  justice  or  death,  the  sound  of  their 
horses'  hoofs  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  distant  hills 
which  sounded  as  if  a  rush  of  cavalry  were  descend- 
ing to  oppose  them.  With  mud  cast  into  their 
faces  and  the  black  drops  of  shallow  pools  dashing 
over  them  like  rain,  they  sped  toward  Stork's  Nest. 


BENTON   ENCOUNTERS    "GHOST"  339 

Benton's  mind  reviewed  the  history  of  that  day 
in  vivid  flashes.  First,  had  been  the  waiting  beside 
the  dead,  with  'Bije  crouching  and  silent  in  his 
chair,  the  repulsive  nature  of  the  grim  giant  acquir- 
ing almost  physical  weight  in  the  long  oppressive 
hours  of  candle  light.  Then  the  funeral  procession 
moving  in  dismal  train  through  the  pitiless  rain  to 
the  cemetery  on  the  prairie.  Then  the  driving  of 
the  cattle,  the  anxiety  in  regard  to  Emma  and 
Jim,  the  delay  at  the  cattle-pen,  the  unmanageable 
herd.  Then  the  furious  gallop  to  Stork's  Nest  to 
find  Jim  gone  and  the  warning  in  the  Bible.  Then 
that  struggle  with  'Bije  which  had  proved  well- 
nigh  fatal,  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  posse  and 
the  pale  face  of  Emma,  as  the  dying  coals  of  the 
counterfeiter's  fire  faintly  defined  it  against  the 
darkness.  And  now  she  was  riding  by  his  side,  and 
the  fear  of  death  which  had  stolen  into  his  heart  as 
'Bije  clutched  his  throat  was  replaced  by  an  exult- 
ant sense  of  life  and  happiness. 

Hicky  Price's  voice  came  to  them  sharply: 
"  What's  the  matter  in  front?  " 

"  Whoa !  "  cried  Tobe.  "  Look  out,  thar !  It's 
Walker,  hain't  it?" 

"  Stuck !  "  came  the  angry  voice  of  Walker. 
"  This  mud  hole  is  jest  like  Mizzoury  cussedness; 
it's  the 

"  Dry  up !  "  cried  Tobe.     "  Ladies  is  present.1' 

"  Forward,  forward !  "  shouted  the  sheriff,  "  a 
delay  at  this  time  may  lose  us  our  prey." 


340  STORK'S   NEST 

"  Better  lose  'em,"  retorted  Tobe,  "  than  git  to 
'em  without  all  our  auxiliaries.  Can't  leave  Walker 
here  with  his  horse  stuck.  Git  off,  Hicky,  an'  push 
on  his  rear."  So  saying,  he  rode  cautiously  for- 
ward. "  Reach  me  his  bridle." 

The  party  had  come  to  a  standstill  and  Benton, 
bending  over,  met  Emma's  hand  in  a  long,  clinging 
grasp.  "  I  don't  understand  how  you  came  here," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  but  our  good  angels 
usually  come  unexpectedly." 

"  I  was  with  Mrs.  Tuckermore,"  Emma  ex- 
plained, her  silvery  tones  sounding  oddly  against 
the  gruff,  impatient  voices  of  the  men,  "  when  Silas 
drove  up  to.  say  that  her  mother,  who's  been 
sick  so  long,  you  know,  was  dyin'  and  he  had 
come  for  her.  So  he  drove  away  with  her  and 
I  was  left  alone  but  not  carin*  anything  about 
that." 

"  Brave  little  Emmy!  "  murmured  the  other. 

She  pressed  his  hand  impulsively.  4  Then  Tobe 
and  the  men  came  with  Uncle  Selton  from  St.  Louis 
—he  just  happened  to  be  on  the  same  train  with 
the  sheriff — and  they  stopped  at  Mrs.  Tucker- 
more's  to  leave  him  with  me,  an'  I  told  about  seein' 
a  fire  where  gran'pop  had  once  saw  Hezzie  Whit- 
licks's  ghost;  and  they  wanted  me  to  lead  them  to 
the  place;  for  they  said  the  ghost  was  'Bije, — none 
other." 

"  I  allowed  her  to  come,"  said  the  stranger  from 
St.  Louis,  "  for  the  sake  of  justice;  but  it's  simply 


BENTON  ENCOUNTERS  "  GHOST '      341 

awful  for  my  niece  to  be  out  in  such  a  scene  and 
on  such  a  night." 

"  What,  Emmy!"  cried  Tobe  admiringly; 
u  law  sakes !  nothin'  kin  hurt  that  there  gal ;  she's 
the  toughest  human  I  ever  see.  Heave  now! 
Git-ap !  " 

"  Can't  you-all  prize  that  beast  out?  "  growled 
the  sheriff. 

"  Mebby  so,"  said  Hicky  irritably.  "  Go  git 
a  rail." 

"  She's  a-moving!  "  cried  Walker  triumphantly. 
"  She's  a-moving!  " 

"  Forward,  if  she  moves !  "  cried  Hicky,  "  for- 
ward, gents — an'  lady,  an'  ever'  man's  hand  on  his 
gun!" 

The  road  became  more  passable,  and  the  horses 
were  urged  along  at  utmost  speed  to  make  up  for 
the  delay.  The  rain  had  recommenced  before  they 
reached  the  gate  leading  into  the  Stork  farm. 

"  The  gate  is  open !  "  cried  Benton,  as  he  rode 
forward.  "  I  left  it  closed;  perhaps  the  cattle  are 
all  out." 

"  An'  the  Storkses,  too,"  added  Hickey  uneasily. 

"  Dismount !  "  ordered  the  sheriff,  "  and  take 
the  house  on  a  dead  run." 


XXI 

THE    STAMPEDE    AT    THE 
QUICKSANDS 

WHEN  Jim  Whitlicks  was  sent  to  his  room 
by  Silas  Stork  he  stood  at  the  window 
till  the  cattle  drivers  had  passed  up  the 
road  out  of  sight.    Then,  heaving  a  great  sigh,  he 
turned  away  from  the  rain-beaten  landscape. 

"  These  awful  secrets  I  hev'  got  a-holt  of,"  he 
muttered,  "  air  so  preyin'  on  my  min'  sometimes  I 
think  they  won't  be  none  of  it  lef  but  bones. 
Well,  knowin'  what  I  do,  an'  knowin'  they'd  kill 
me  if  I  moved  a  peg  in  the  business,  an'  thinkin' 
Emmy  would  better  marry  'Bije  than  for  me  to  die 
so  onseasonable,  there  hain't  nothin'  kin  comfort 
me.  There's  one  thing,  though;  when  nothin' 
could  n't  cheer  yous  up,  nothin'  like  bein'  jest  as 
miser'ble  as  poss'ble." 

He  stood  before  a  calendar  which  hung  tacked 
to  the  dingy  wall.  "  The  dark  of  the  moon,"  he 
muttered.  *  That  may  be  good  for  pertaters,  but 
it  bodes  no  good  for  humans.  I  never  knowed 
nothin'  pleasant  to  happen  to  me  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon.  But  as  for  that,"  he  added,  after  a  pause, 

342 


STAMPEDE    AT   QUICKSANDS    343 

"  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  either.  Whar's  my 
book?" 

The  question  was  put  merely  in  the  way  of 
soliloquy,  as  the  new  yellow  almanac  was  almost  at 
hand.  He  carried  it  to  the  bed,  lay  down  upon  his 
stomach,  bent  his  legs  back  and  locked  his  toes  at 
half  mast.  Then  leaning  on  his  elbows  he  began 
to  read  nasally: 

"  Imagine  billions  of  disease  germs  floatin'  about 
your  head."  He  paused,  and  presently  announced: 
"  All  right,  IVe  done  it !  "  Then  he  resumed 
reading:  "The  danger  cannot  be  exaggerated 
and  it  is  needless  to  add  that — "  Jim  turned  from 
the  page  remarking:  "Then  it's  needless  for 
me  to  fool  any  more  of  my  time  with  yous  if  yous 
hain't  nothin'  to  tell!  "  He  fluttered  the  pages. 
"  Here's  a  awful  lookin'  pictur',"  he  presently 
remarked.  "  Let's  see  what  she  had.  *  For  ten 
year  I  suffered  with  prophylactics !  '  That  sounds 
about  as  big  as  my  troubles  feel.  I  wonder  if  I've 
got  it?  Prophylactics  .  .  .  Like  'nough, 
though,  men  folks  hain't  bothered  with  'em.  I 
must  remember  that  word.  That  thar  name  would 
lend  dignity  to  chicken-pox.  Lor' !  I  wonder  what 
Liza  Mary  will  say  to  that!  She's  the  only  one 
in  the  hull  worF  that's  taken  any  int'rust  in  my 
diseases.  Poor  Emmy!  She's  a  good  gal,  an' 
mighty  handy  with  cookin',  but  she  never  sympa- 
thized with  my  sorrows." 

It  was  growing  dark  when  footsteps  were  heard 


344  STORK'S   NEST 

in  the  hall  and  Silas  Stork  entered  the  room.  "  Si," 
said  Jim,  still  reclining,  "  has  men  prophylactics?  " 

"  Brother,"  said  Si,  taking  a  stool,  "  how  air 
yous,  brother?  Come  to  chat  with  yous.  Hev' 
yous  been  lonesome,  brother?  " 

*  Yap,  but  it's  customary,"  said  Jim,  rising. 
14  What  d'ye  want  me  to  do  now,  Si  Stork?  " 

"  Jest  set  thar  a  spell,"  said  Silas  mildly.  "  I 
hev'  came  from  Tobe  Tuckermore's.  I  met  some 
un  on  my  way  from  cattle  drivin'  an'  he  said  Mrs. 
Tuckermore's  ma  was  dyin'.  So  I  taked  the  top 
buggy  after  her  an'  when  we  got  thar,  lo  an'  behol' ! 
it  were  a  mistake,  though  she  were  bad  enough.  I 
could  n't  take  Mrs.  Tuckermore  home,  not  goin' 
that  way,  so  Emmy  is  all  alone;  that's  what 
pinches  me." 

"  Si  Stork,"  cried  Jim  fiercely,  "  I  know  why 
Emmy  is  left  thar  alone.  Let  me  tell  yous " 

"  Don't  tell  me  nothin'  Jim,"  said  Silas  good- 
humoredly.  "  I've  read  the  papers.  What  I 
want  to  git  into  your  head  is  the  importance 
of  beatin'  down  the  crossin'  at  the  ford  after 
dark." 

"Who's  that  trompin'  out  in  the  hall?" 
demanded  Jim  suddenly. 

"  Crishy,  I  reckon." 

Jim  stared  at  Silas  wildly.  "  Si  Stork,  yous 
know  Mrs.  Stork  is,  not  only  to  say  a  woman,  but 
bar'footed  an'  as  light  as  down  of  nettles.  Yous 
know  that  hain't  her.  I  don't  see  how  yous  kin  sit 


STAMPEDE    AT    QUICKSANDS    345 

thar  an'  pervaricate  in  that  off-handed  way,  not  if 
yous  hev'  'Bije  beat  me  fur  sayin'  so." 

"  'Tain't  nothin'  but  practice,"  said  Silas 
modestly.  "  It  were  hard  at  first,  I  do  say." 

"  That  thar  is  'Bije,  trompin'  downstairs,"  cried 
Jim,  "  yous  know  it  air." 

"  Yous  jest  set  still,"  said  Silas,  "  an'  let  him 
be  who  Providence  hev'  made  him." 

After  a  brief  interval  the  footsteps  were  heard 
ascending  the  stairs.  They  entered  the  Snake 
Room  and  came  out  slowly. 

"  I  know,  I  know !  "  cried  Jim.  "  He's  carryin' 
down  them  pokes  of  money.  What's  he  goin'  to 
do  with  'em,  Si?" 

Silas  watched  him  narrowly.  '  Why,  Jim !  yous 
heerd  what  we  are  to  do  with  'em  when  yous 
listened  at  the  door." 

"  Nuck,"  said  Jim  innocently.  "  I  could  n't 
hear  skercely  a  word  out  thar." 

"  'Bije  said  he'd  'a'  killed  yous  if  yous  had 
heerd,"  remarked  Silas. 

"  Yap,"  said  Jim  cheerfully,  "  an  I  knowed 
he'd  of  done  it,  too.  Thar  goes  more  bags.  I'd 
druther  spend  my  money  along  day  by  day  than 
hev'  it  all  on  my  back  at  once,  weightin'  me  down. 
Si,  did  yous  ever  reflect  that  yous  can't  carry  none 
o'  your  money  with  yous  when  you  die?  " 

"  I  don't  see  no  good  o'  thinkin'  about  it,"  said 
Silas  somewhat  crossly.  '  Why  not  hev  cheerful 
thoughts?" 


346  STORK'S   NEST 

"  La !  "  said  Jim,  "  that  thought  nigh  makes 
me  laff — I  don't  say  it  do.  Whar's  he  takin'  all 
them  bags?  " 

Silas  made  no  answer.  There  was  a  long 
pause,  at  the  end  of  which  Jim  remarked: 
"  Can't  carry  none  of  it  with  yous  beyant  the 
grave !  " 

Silas  started.  "  Hush,  Jim !  "  he  said  impa- 
tiently, "  yous  make  me  feel  creepy.  I  dunno 
what's  the  matter  with  me,  nohow." 

"  Thar's  'Bije  whistlin'  to  yous,"  said  Jim 
presently. 

Silas  rose.  "  Yous  stay  right  here  till  eight," 
he  said,  "  then  drive  them  lean  cattle.  An'  if  yous 
do  exact  as  yous  been  tole  I'll  see  that  your  pa's 
ghost  is  pacified.  He's  out  to-night.  Well,  Jim,  so 
long!  I  feel  kind  o'  sorry  to  leave  yous.  Say, 
Jim,  hain't  we  allers  been  kind  er  neighborly-like 
and  got  along  sort  er  fust  rate?  " 

*  Third-rate  would  be  more  exact,"  rejoined 
Jim.  Yous  never  struck  me  a  blow,  Si,  but  yous 
put  up  'Bije  to  many  a  lick.  So  long,  Si;  'Bije  is 
whistlin'  sort  o'  impatient-like." 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Jim.  I  think  we've  been  tol'- 
able-like  good  frien's." 

"  I've  knowed  one  meaner  man  than  yous,  Si," 
said  Jim  dryly,  "  but  not  more,  I  do  say.  Good-bye 
to  yous." 

Silas  hurried  away.  "  Til  git  licked  for  them 
words,"  muttered  Jim,  "  but  the  more  my  poor 


STAMPEDE    AT    QUICKSANDS    347 

body  is  wracked  an'  tormented,  the  freer  an'  more 
uplifted  I  fin'  my  min'  an'  sperit." 

It  was  then  that  Jim  prepared  to  write  his 
message.  "  I'll  put  it  in  the  Bible  whar  Emmy 
used  to  stick  her  bo'quets,"  he  muttered,  "  an'  it 
may  save  her.  If  he  only  has  sense  enough  to  look 
for  it!  He  see  me  a-writin'  on  the  winder  an' 
winkin'  till  my  eye  watered,  an'  like  'nough  he 
ketched  my  devise." 

When  the  clock  struck  eight  he  left  the  room  and 
hurried  out  to  get  his  horse.  It  was  so  dark  that, 
had  he  not  been  familiar  with  every  step  of  the 
way,  he  could  not  have  performed  his  task.  The 
steers  were  indistinguishable  in  the  blackness  of  the 
night,  and  he  was  obliged  to  trust  to  the  sound  of 
hoofs,  the  occasional  bellowings  of  uneasiness  and 
the  heavy  breathing  as  he  rode  near.  Having 
propped  open  the  road  gate,  he  spurred  here  and 
there,  shouting  and  cracking  his  blacksnake  whip, 
till  the  herd  was  started.  He  came  close  in  their 
rear,  leaving  the  gate  open.  Many  a  time  before, 
he  had  driven  cattle  across  Grand  River,  but  never 
in  such  appalling  darkness.  He  was,  however, 
undismayed.  The  hoarse  cries  and  the  sound  of 
the  cattle's  movements  told  him  they  were  taking 
the  right  direction,  and  he  was  not  only  enabled  to 
drive  them  with  ease  but  to  devote  some  thought 
to  his  sorrows.  Seldom,  if  ever,  had  he  enjoyed 
such  an  appropriate  setting  for  his  melancholy. 
The  total  darkness,  the  cold,  damp  air,  the  con- 


348  STORK'S   NEST 

fused  tramping  of  hoofs,  the  prospect  of  flounder- 
ing back  and  forth  across  the  quicksands,  the 
thought  of  'Bije's  projected  villainy  and  the  pros- 
pect of  seeing  his  father's  ghost  at  any  moment,  all 
fitted  in  with  his  natural  bent.  Jim  Whitlicks  was 
thoroughly  miserable. 

He  came  to  the  intersection  of  two  roads  and 
naturally  expected  the  cattle  to  take  the  wrong  one, 
compelling  him  to  follow  to  head  them  off.  He 
dashed  forward  with  the  purpose  of  starting  them 
aright,  but  his  anxiety  was  needless.  They  took 
the  road  toward  the  river. 

"Well!"  muttered  the  lad,  "that's  the  fust 
good  luck  I've  had  to-day,  but  I  reckon  it  don't 
mean  nothin'.  They'll  go  wrong  comin'  home, 
I  bet." 

His  horse  floundered  in  deep  mud  and  almost 
fell.  Jim  spurred  out  of  the  muck  and  splashed 
into  a  newly  formed  pool  which  had  inundated  the 
road.  The  cattle  lowed  uneasily  as  they  found 
the  water  rising  to  their  sides  and  their  tails 
whipped  the  spray  over  their  backs. 

"  This  hain't  nothin',  my  honeys,"  called  Jim, 
"  to  the  sousin'  you'll  git  at  the  ford !  " 

At  last  the  bank  of  Grand  River  was  reached. 
Jim  could  not  see  the  water,  but  he  heard  its 
swollen  current  rushing  past,  gurgling  in  the  foot 
passage,  thundering  over  the  waterfall.  The  cattle 
came  to  a  standstill.  The  straining  eyes  of  the 
youth  could  distinguish  a  white  steer  which  stood 


STAMPEDE    AT   QUICKSANDS    349 

almost  within  reach.  The  others  were  lost  in  the 
night.  He  raised  his  voice  and  began  cracking  his 
whip.  The  cattle  did  not  stir. 

"Hi!  hi!"  shouted  Jim.  "Hoo-ey!  hoo-ey! 
hoo-ey!"  He  brought  down  the  whip  sharply 
upon  the  white  steer.  It  plunged  forward  bellow- 
ing. There  was  a  mad  scramble  down  the  bank. 
"  Hoo-ey!  hoo-ey!  "  shouted  Jim. 

Suddenly  his  horse  reared  upon  his  hind  legs. 
"  Whoa  !  "  shouted  Jim,  clinging  on  with  difficulty. 
"What's  the  matter  with  yous,  now?  Whoa, 
thar!  "  The  horse,  snorting  and  plunging,  backed 
away  from  the  rushing  tide.  The  bellowing,  and 
floundering  of  the  cattle  increased.  "  They're 
turnin' !  "  he  exclaimed  suddenly.  "Oh,  Lord! 
they  won't  take  the  river.  But  they've  got  to 
cross!  'Bije  '11  kill  me  if  I  don't  git  the  ford 
trompled  down.  Hoo-ey,  thar!  hoo-ey,  hoo-ey!  " 

The  cattle  were  panic-stricken  and  Jim's  horse 
leaped  sideways  out  of  their  mad  rush.  Jim  drove 
in  his  spurs  and  compelled  the  frightened  animal 
to  dash  ahead  of  the  cattle.  Once  in  the  lead  he 
whipped  the  steers  cruelly,  shouting  at  the  top  of 
his  voice ;  but  he  could  not  check  their  flight.  The 
horse,  terrified  by  the  thundering  hoofs  behind 
him,  became  unmanageable  and  took  the  bit  in  his 
teeth.  Jim  pulled  upon  the  bridle  with  all  his 
strength.  But  he  was  too  late.  The  horse,  stretch- 
ing out  his  long  neck  straight  from  the  shoulders, 
ran  down  the  muddy  road,  splashing  his  rider  from 


350  STORK'S   NEST 

head  to  foot.  After  the  runaway  horse  came  the 
herd,  never  decreasing  their  frenzied  speed. 
Through  the  intense  darkness  the  wild  rush  con- 
tinued, and  Jim  forgot  everything  else  in  his 
endeavor  to  keep  upon  the  horse's  back.  The  fear 
of  immediate  death  drove  from  his  mind  the  ter- 
rible punishment  he  might  expect  from  his  cruel 
master  on  account  of  his  failure  to  cross  the  ford. 
The  frenzied  bellowing  and  wild  rush  of  the  pur- 
suing cattle  were  to  his  terrified  ears  as  the  pursuit 
of  ferocious  demons,  crying  for  his  blood.  The 
clamor  beat  upon  his  consciousness  ever  nearer  and 
nearer,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  and  at  each  moment 
he  expected  to  find  his  horse  overborne,  and  his 
own  body  trampled  to  a  shapeless  mass  by  the 
herd. 

Suddenly  his  horse  stumbled  violently,  casting 
him  to  the  ground.  He  still  clung  to  the  bridle, 
and  now,  with  desperate  hands,  swung  to  it  as  the 
frightened  animal  plunged  and  snorted,  while  the 
cattle  thundered  up.  He  leaped  for  the  saddle, 
but  his  foot  missed  the  stirrup  as  the  horse  bounded 
to  one  side.  Nerved  by  the  despairing  strength 
of  a  man  whose  last  hope  is  centered  upon  a  final 
effort,  he  threw  his  arm  about  the  horse's  neck  and 
leaped  again.  As  he  did  so  the  white  steer,  which 
was  in  the  lead,  plunged  past  him,  flinging  the  mud 
over  his  head.  He  gained  the  horse's  back  and 
spurred  him  madly,  while  a  shout,  half  of  fear,  half 
of  triumph,  burst  from  his  throat.  The  horse  took 


STAMPEDE   AT   QUICKSANDS    351 

the  bit  again  and  the  turmoil  gradually  lessened. 
The  splashing  of  many  hoofs  came  more  dully, 
while  the  bellowing  grew  fainter  and  at  last  died 
away. 

Jim  supposed  the  herd  was  left  in  silence  on 
account  of  the  fleetness  of  the  horse,  but  at  last  he 
found  another  reason  for  his  triumphant  escape; 
he  was  being  carried  up  a  road  so  steep  and  difficult 
that  the  horse  came  under  control;  he  had  reached 
"  the  hill."  The  horse  had  taken  the  wrong  way 
at  the  cross  roads  and  they  were  far  from  home. 

Jim's  relief  at  being  able  to  manage  his  horse 
gave  way  to  alarm  at  the  thought  of  'Bije  and 
Silas.  Turning  about  he  hurried  back,  hoping  the 
cattle  had  gone  home  and  that  he  could  still  drive 
them  to  the  ford  in  time.  At  any  rate,  the  Storks 
must  be  informed  of  his  failure,  lest  they  venture 
into  the  quicksands  and  perish. 

Suddenly  the  horse  stumbled  again  and  Jim  was 
thrown  to  the  ground.  He  sank  deep  in  the  mud 
and,  before  he  could  recover  himself,  the  horse 
had  galloped  away.  Jim  sought  the  side  of  the 
road  where  grasses  grew  along  the  hedge  and, 
groaning  with  apprehension,  made  what  speed 
he  could  toward  Stork's  Nest.  He  at  last  reached 
the  farm,  wretched  and  aching.  As  he  climbed  the 
yard  fence  it  began  to  rain.  From  the  front  door 
came  the  gleam  of  a  lantern.  It  was  held  aloft 
by  Mrs.  Stork's  hand.  Its  light  fell  upon  a  big 
wagon  to  which  two  mules  were  attached.  Silas 


352  STORK'S   NEST 

sat  on  the  seat  and  'Bije  had  just  come  from  the 
house. 

"  Thank  the  Lord !  "  muttered  Jim.  "  I  reckon 
never  was  such  a  wallopin'  as  'Bije  '11  give  me,  but, 
bless  God,  he's  alive  to  give  it !  " 

"  I  guess  we're  ready,"  said  'Bije,  in  a  hurried 
voice  as  he  approached  the  end  of  the  wagon  to 
which  his  black  mare  was  fastened.  "  They'll  be 
here  purty  soon.  Crishy,  be  sure  to  send  'em  the 
wrong  road — you  know  how.  If  I  had  n't  had  my 
hoss  they'd  ketched  up  with  me,  Si !  " 

"  Not  them,  'Bijey;  not  them!  "  cried  Silas  con- 
temptuously. "  Whoa !  what's  that?  " 

"  Jim !  "  exclaimed  'Bije  fiercely,  "  did  you  go 
to  Gran'  River  as  you  were  ordered?  " 

"  Yap,"  stammered  Jim,  "  I  went  all  right 
enough,  but  oh,  'Bije  !  I  am  so  sorry  that — that — 
that "  Jim's  voice  trailed  off  into  amazed  si- 
lence as  his  eyes  glued  themselves  upon  an  object 
which  had  fallen  from  'Bije's  blue  trousers  pocket. 
It  was  an  enormous  red  wig.  Jim's  eyes  rolled 
upward  and  took  note  of  the  black  shirt,  then  down 
and  rested  upon  the  boots,  one  of  which  showed  a 
cut  toe.  A  cry  burst  from  his  thin  lips. 

1  Yous  air  the  ghost,  'Bije  Stork !  It's  yous 
hev'  drove  me  destracted  about  pa's  sperrit.  I  see 
it  all,  I  see  it  all;  an'  pa  is  dead  like  other  folks, 
bless  God !  Pa  hain't  got  no  more  sperrit  than  me ! 
Don't  yous  deny  it,  'Bije,  fur  I  see  through  you,  an' 
if  I  did  n't  speak  out  I'd  fly  to  pieces!  " 


STAMPEDE   AT   QUICKSANDS    353 

"You  idiot !"  shouted  'Bije  savagely,  "Til 
kill  you !  "  His  clenched  fist  smote  Jim's  head 
upon  the  side  and  the  boy  fell  senseless.  'Bije 
sprang  upon  the  end  of  the  wagon  and  grasped 
the  halter  that  held  his  mare.  "Hurry!"  he 
cried  hoarsely.  "  Don't  spare  the  whip,  Si !  " 

The  mules  plunged  forward  and  the  front  wheels 
barely  grazed  the  gate-post.  For  a  time,  the  air 
rang  with  the  sharp  report  of  the  whip,  the  beat 
of  the  hoofs  and  the  groaning  of  the  wagon.  Then 
the  sounds  gradually  died  away. 

When  Mrs.  Stork  felt  herself  safe,  she  knelt 
beside  the  motionless  form  of  Jim  Whitlicks,  and 
held  the  lantern  close  to  the  ashen  face. 

"  Jim,"  she  said  softly,  "  Jim,  air  yous  hurt?  " 
The  form  did  not  move.  "  Poor  boy,"  said  Mrs. 
Stork,  laying  a  hand  upon  his  rough  hair,  "  poor 
boy!  "  She  seated  herself  upon  the  ground  and 
drew  the  unconscious  head  upon  her  knee.  The 
rain  hissed  against  the  lantern.  The  woman  looked 
fearfully  all  about  and  presently  muttered,  "  I'm 
a-goin'  to  do  it,  before  he  comes  to!  He  won't 
never  know,  an'  I've  often  wanted  to  be  like  a 
mother  to  him,  poor  discredited  orphan  as  he  is! 
I  jest  want  to  know  how  it  'd  seem  if  I'd  had  one 
of  my  own,  an'  could  hev'  been  a  woman  in  my 
actions  as  I  am  one  bodily."  Then  suddenly  bow- 
ing her  head  she  kissed  Jim's  homely  cheek. 


XXII 
PURSUIT 

JIM  WHITLICKS  showed  no  sign  of  life  as 
Mrs.  Stork's  hand  fluttered  here  and  there  in 
her  agitation.     She  heard  approaching  foot- 
steps but,  knowing  the  twins  would  not  return, 
riveted  her  gaze  upon  the  orphan's  pinched  face  as 
her  lantern  revealed  it;  but  Jim  did  not  stir. 

14  What  is  this?  "  came  a  hurried  voice  as  several 
forms  advanced  into  the  light. 

Mrs.  Stork,  without  looking  up,  replied:  "  I 
air  a  jail-woman." 

"  Mrs.  Stork,"  cried  Emma  Garrett,  running  for- 
ward, "  oh!  what  has  happened  to  Jim?  " 

"  Lightning,"  was  the  grim  answer.  Emma 
knelt  beside  the  motionless  form.  Five  men 
approached. 

"  Where  is  'Bije,  Mrs.  Stork?  "  inquired  Hicky 
Price  persuasively. 

"  Ast  'Bije,"  said  the  lady  of  the  house,  staring 
at  Emma  as  the  girl  rubbed  Jim's  limp  arms. 

"  Mr.  Price,"  said  the  sheriff,  "  is  this  woman 
an  escaped  prisoner?  " 

"  I  air  a  jail-woman,"  said  Mrs.  Stork,  giving 
the  sheriff  a  sour  look,  "  but  I  hain't  escaped  as 
yet." 

354 


PURSUIT  355 

"  Guard  the  house !  "  cried  the  sheriff.  "  Tobe, 
get  to  the  rear." 

Benton,  who  carried  one  of  the  dark  lanterns 
with  which  Hicky  had  provided  the  party,  sud- 
denly exclaimed:  "Look,  look!  here  are  fresh 
wagon-tracks.  They  have  left  the  place  by  the 
back  way!  " 

"  Emma,"  said  the  strange  gentleman  whom  the 
girl  had  described  as  her  uncle  from  St.  Louis, 
"  you  ought  not  to  be  sitting  in  that  mud.  Let  me 
take  the  boy  in  the  house0" 

The  sheriff  interrupted  him.  "  Mrs.  Stork,  if 
you  do  not  tell  us  instantly  where  the  counter- 
feiters have  gone  you  will  be  placed  under  arrest." 

"  An'  what  of  it?  "  retorted  Mrs.  Stork.  "  I've 
lived  on  bread  an'  water  ev'  sence  married,  I've 
been;  an'  it's  meet  that  iron  bars  should  be  h'isted 
about  my  head.  Poor  Jim,"  she  added,  stroking 
Jim's  hair  in  a  secret,  half-ashamed  manner. 

Jim  opened  his  eyes  and  murmured :  "  Git 
out!" 

"  He's  alive,  bless  him ! "  cried  Emma. 
"  Uncle,  take  him  in  the  house;  he's  a  mighty  fine 
boy,  Jim  is." 

The  St.  Louis  uncle  gave  Jim  Whitlicks  a  dis- 
paraging glance  but  lifted  him  up  gently. 

"  This,"  whispered  Jim,  "air  what  I  hev'  allers 
expected.  I  hain't  been  sa'prised." 

As  the  lad  was  being  borne  to  the  house,  the 
sheriff  again  addressed  Mrs.  Stork  with  the  utmost 


356  STORK'S   NEST 

sternness:  "How  long  have  these  men  been 
gone?" 

"  Gents,"  said  the  other  rising  and  kicking  out 
a  foot  to  dislodge  some  of  its  mud,  "  tweezers  or 
pully-kins  could  n't  draw  nothin'  out  of  me.  I 
will  say  they're  carryin'  heavy  pokes  which  air  to 
your  favor." 

"  They  have  gone  to  bury  the  money  under 
Shagg's  cabin,"  interposed  Benton.  "  We  can  over- 
take them  if  we  lose  no  more  time." 

"  Where  is  Shagg's  cabin  ?  "  asked  Walker.  "  I 
wa'n't  growed  in  these  parts,  an'  I  hain't  no 
instincts." 

"  I  know  the  spot,"  interposed  Tobe  Tucker- 
more.  "  Every  man  to  'is  hoss !  We  can  foller 
these  tracks  if  Ben  isn't  wrong,  surmisin'." 

"  Ben,"  said  Emma,  gripping  his  arm,  "  did  you 
hear  uncle  Selton  'low  I  ought  n't  to  be  sitting  in 
the  mud?  He's  been  that  way  ever  since  he  came. 
I'm  going  back  with  him  an' be  a  lady!  La!  I'll 
forget  I  have  ever  seen  mud  when  down  in  St. 
Louis,  I  do  expect !  " 

As  the  men  made  a  rush  for  their  horses  Mrs. 
Stork  took  up  the  lantern  preparatory  to  slipping 
into  the  house.  Its  light  fell  upon  Emma.  It  was 
the  first  time  Benton  had  had  a  distinct  view  of  her 
since  he  had  learned  of  the  villainy  threatening  her 
life.  She  was  stained  with  mud  and  dripping  from 
the  rain  which  still  poured  down  upon  them,  but 
he  thought  it  the  fairest  picture  he  had  ever  gazed 


PURSUIT  357 

upon  as  her  face  appeared  white  and  softened 
by  the  mild  light,  with  the  golden  locks  coiled  in 
glistening  wet  loops  about  the  gleaming  neck. 
And  Emma  glanced  at  his  tall  and  manly  form, 
no  longer  thin  and  sickly,  but  showing  strength 
and  self-reliance,  and  noted  the  handsome  face, 
the  glowing  brown  eyes,  the  sturdy  shoulders,  and 
remembered  how  he  had  just  fought,  ready 
to  give  his  life  to  save  her,  and  her  eyes  looked  all 
the  admiration  and  affection  of  her  heart.  The 
blue  orbs  burned  and  sparkled  like  heaven  at  sun- 
rise, and  Benton  started  toward  her,  forgetful  of 
the  world.  But  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Stork  blew 
out  the  lantern. 

"  Ben,"  called  Hicky,  "  air  yous  comin'  or  not?  " 

"  Emma,"  called  Mr.  Selton,  from  the  doorway, 
having  returned  from  carrying  Jim  to  his  room, 
"  come  in  out  of  that  rain,  my  child!  " 

Benton  asked  hastily,  "  Mr.  Selton,  will  you 
go  with  us?  " 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  the  other  dryly.  "  I'll 
stay  to  take  care  of  my  niece.  I  did  n't  come  up 
here  to  pursue  bandits." 

Benton  ran  to  the  fence  where  his  horse  was 
fastened  and  overtook  the  others.  The  delay  at 
Stork's  Nest  had  been  brief,  and  soon  they  were 
plunging  along  the  miry  road,  splashing  in  black 
pools,  stumbling  over  rocky  ledges.  They  took 
turn  about,  riding  ahead  with  the  lantern  swung 
low,  to  reveal  the  wagon  tracks.  These  were 


358  STORK'S   NEST 

already  filled  with  the  ever-increasing  rain  which 
whipped  their  faces  mercilessly.  At  last  they 
reached  one  of  those  spots  so  familiar  to  Missouri 
country  roads  where  the  utmost  caution  is  required 
to  prevent  "  being  stuck,"  and  the  sheriff  took 
advantage  of  the  delay  to  inquire: 

"  What  did  Mrs.  Stork  mean  by  *  heavy 
pokes'?" 

"  Bags,"  Benton  explained.  "  The  people  up 
here  always  say  *  pokes  '  even  when  they  mean 
little  paper  sacks." 

"  Well,"  gasped  Tobe,  as  he  bravely  saved  him- 
self from  being  thrown  sideways,  "  what  do  yous 
call  'em?" 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Hicky,  from  the  other  side, 
"  what  had  went  wrong  with  Jim?  " 

"  'Bije  knocked  him  down,  most  likely,"  said 
Tobe,  forgetting  about  the  "  pokes." 

"  Poor  Jim,"  commented  Hicky,  "  it  was  some- 
thin'  melancholy  I'll  be  boun'.  If  he  was  to 
git  happy  of  a  suddint  it  Vd  kill  him,  most 
likely.  Jim  ought  never  to  marry,  though  they  do 
say  he's  standin'  to  Liza  Mary.  But  what  I  say 
is,  if  a  man  is  melancholy,  that's  for  him  to  say; 
but  he  ought  not  to  be  the  father  of  melancholy. 
He  said  he  was  n't  sa'prised.  Hear  him,  Ben? 
Poor  Jim  were  true  blue.  I  guess  we're  most  to 
Gran'  River  now,  hey?  " 

"  It's  not  far  away,"  said  Benton.  "  Listen ! 
Do  we  not  hear  it?  " 


PURSUIT  359 

"Sure,"  Walker  assented.  "Sounds  like  all 
Gran'  River  has  got  out  of  bed  an'  is  rampagin' 
down  the  road  to  meet  us." 

"  It  is  n't  the  river,"  the  sheriff  interposed  has- 
tily. "It's  their  horses.  They're  coming  back!" 

There  was  a  moment  of  strained  listening  and 
the  beat  of  approaching  hoofs  was  distinctly 
audible. 

"What's  'Bije's  game,  I  wonder?"  muttered 
Tobe.  "Shet  off  all  them  lights.  When  they 
drive  abreast,  flash  'em  on  the  team." 

"  If  they  don't  stop  at  my  order,"  said  the 
sheriff,  "  shoot  one  of  the  mules." 

There  was  a  period  of  intense  expectancy,  while 
the  rush  of  hoofs  drew  nearer,  drowning  out  the 
distant  boom  of  the  river. 

Hicky  presently  murmured :  "  They  could  n't 
of  went  far,  as  these  here  tracks  ain't  plumb  full 
from  the  rain.  Guess  they  found  they  could  n't 
git  across." 

The  hoof-beats  thundered  close  at  hand. 
"Steady!  "  whispered  the  sheriff;  then  in  a  loud 
voice:  "Light!" 

The  lanterns  flashed  upon  the  road  and  revealed 
one  mule  galloping  past,  broken  harness  trailing 
from  its  back. 

"  My  God!  "  muttered  one  of  the  men,  "  what 
could  have  happened?" 

"Forward!"  came  the  sharp  voice  of  the 
sheriff.  "  Look  to  your  guns!  " 


360  STORK'S    NEST 

They  spurred  down  the  road  and  the  murmur  of 
the  swollen  river  grew  deeper  and  more  threaten- 
ing. At  last,  their  light  revealed  the  sloping  bank 
and  a  fleeting  gray  shadow  which  they  knew  to  be 
the  hurrying  tide. 

Hicky  dismounted  and  went  forward.  "  These 
tracks  go  cle'r  down  to  the  water,"  he  called. 
"  They're  at  Shagg's  cabin  most  likely,  buryin' 
their  bogus  coin.  But  why  they  cut  one  of  them 
mules  loose,  beats  me !  " 

"  I'll  cross  over,"  said  Benton,  leaping  to  the 
ground,  "  and  try  to  find  the  tracks  on  the  other 
side."  Holding  a  lantern  before  him,  he  felt  his 
way  over  the  rock  crossing,  while  the  rain  dashed 
against  him  furiously.  He  was  reminded  of  the 
time  he  had  attempted  to  cross  with  Emma.  Now 
it  was  difficult  to  understand  how  the  river  had 
terrified  him.  With  bold,  sure  strides  he  passed 
the  various  chasms  in  the  chain  and  reached  the 
opposite  bank. 

"  What  d'  ye  see?  "  called  Tobe. 

Benton  moved  the  lantern  along  the  bank,  then 
rose  and  answered  solemnly:  "  Gentlemen,  that 
wagon  never  reached  this  bank !  " 

"  Look  farther  down,"  the  sheriff  called. 
'  They's  no  down  or  up  to  the  quicksands," 
interposed  Hicky.     "  It's  the  ford  or — or  nothin'. 
I'll  cross  over  an'  examine,  too.     Shorely,   Ben, 
them  tracks  air  there !  " 

"  There  is  no  sign  of  them,"  Benton  persisted, 


PURSUIT  361 

as  Hicky  joined  him  after  a  tedious  and  laborious 
struggle  over  the  insecure  crossing. 

At  that  moment  horses*  hoofs  were  heard 
hurrying  up  to  the  far  side  of  the  river. 

"  Boys!  "  cried  Hicky  excitedly,  "  they're  here 
after  all.  Git  to  our  help!  We  two  can't  stand 
'em  off.  Come,  boys,  come !  " 

:<  We're  comin',"  shouted  the  sheriff,  starting 
for  the  crossing. 

"  Halt!  "  cried  Benton,  as  two  horsemen  came 
within  the  light  of  his  lantern. 

"What's  the  matter?"  came  a  voice  of  one 
of  the  horsemen.  "  Who  was  yelling  for  help?  " 

"Why!  that's  Peter  Glover!"  exclaimed 
Hicky.  "  Don't  shoot,  Ben,  he's  a  friend." 

"  Is  that  yous,  Hicky?  "  exclaimed  the  new- 
comer. "What's  the  matter?  I  heerd  awful 
screaming  down  here,  an'  I  jest  stopped  to  bring  a 
neighbor  to  see  what  was  to  be  done.  Mr.  Vald- 
ington — Mr.  Price." 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  the  second  horse- 
man, as  both  dismounted. 

"  Thank  y',"  said  Hicky. 

"  I'm  afraid,  then,"  said  the  sheriff,  "  all  is 
over  with  the  counterfeiters." 

"  Why,  Peter,  is  that  you?  "  cried  Tobe  Tucker- 
more,  joining  the  group.  "  Howdy,  brother, 
howdy!  Now  ever'body  turn  their  light  on  to 
the  ford." 

All  the  lanterns  were  bent  upon  the  fleeting 


362  STORK'S   NEST 

shadows  of  gray  as  it  passed  out  of  blackness  into 
impenetrable  gloom. 

:<  There's  something,"  said  the  sheriff  sud- 
denly. 

"  It  hain't  bresh,"  said  Hicky,  "  for  it  don't 


move." 


"  I  believe  I  can  reach  it  from  the  rocks,"  said 
Benton,  beginning  to  take  off  his  shoes.  "  I'll 
try  for  it." 

1  You'll  be  reskin'  your  life,"  said  Tobe,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "  What  if  it  don't  hold  yous  up? 
Then  down  in  the  quicksands  you'll  go !  " 

"  I  don't  believe  it  will  sink  with  me,"  said  Ben- 
ton  resolutely,  "  or  it  would  have  sunk  already.  I 
shall  make  a  leap  for  it,  and  if  I  fall  upon  it,  I 
believe  it  will  hold.  And  if  I  miss  it — well " 

"  Yap,"  said  Tobe. 

"I'll  git  my  rope,"  said  Peter  Glover.  "I 
'lowed  some  un  was  swamped  in  the  quicksands 
when  I  heerd  screamin'." 

He  unwound  a  coil  from  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle.  They  tied  one  end  of  the  rope  about  Ben- 
ton's  waist  and  the  other  end  was  grasped  in  strong 
hands.  The  young  man  walked  carefully  to  the 
middle  of  the  crossing  and  looked  over  the  black 
sheet  of  water  at  the  motionless  object. 

"Say!"  said  Hicky,  slowly  following,  "I 
believe  that's  the  rim  of  a  wheel.  Ben,  you'll 
breck  your  neck,  jumpin'  on  that.  Better  swim  out 
to  it." 


PURSUIT  363 

Benton  hesitated.  The  mysterious  object  which 
barely  showed  above  the  racing  tide  as  the  lanterns 
flashed  had  a  sinister  look  to  the  young  man.  If 
it  were  the  wheel  of  a  wagon,  where  were  'Bije  and 
Silas?  He  shuddered,  then,  with  renewed  decision 
sprang  from  the  crossing.  The  black  water  closed 
about  him,  and  he  battled  for  the  unknown  goal. 
The  fury  of  the  current  beat  him  back  and  he 
struggled  against  it  with  all  his  strength.  Suddenly 
he  found  himself  sinking,  drawn  down  by  some 
irresistible  power.  Something  slimy,  soft,  unspeak- 
ably horrible,  sucked  at  his  foot  like  a  thing  of  life. 
The  next  moment,  he  was  drawn  to  the  surface  by 
the  rope.  His  arms  clutched  at  the  passway  and 
he  climbed  out  of  the  water. 

"  Give  it  up!  "  exclaimed  Hicky,  his  face  pale 
and  distressed. 

"  No !  "  said  Benton,  "  I'll  go  up  farther,  and 
try  it  again." 

"  Look,  look!  "  called  Tobe,  "  that  thing  hain't 
as  high  as  it  was.  Say!  It's  sinkin' — it's 
sinkin' !  " 

But  Benton  had  already  made  a  desperate 
spring.  This  time  his  feet  found  the  ford.  The 
water  was  not  waist  high,  but  he  felt  himself  being 
drawn  under.  He  was  near  the  object  of  all  eyes 
and,  holding  out  his  hands,  he  fell  forward.  His 
hands  grasped  some  object,  and  he  drew  himself  up. 

"What  is  it?"  called  Hicky,  in  nervous  sus- 
pense. 


364  STORK'S   NEST 

Benton  was  breathing  too  heavily  to  respond  at 
once. 

"Hurrah!"  shouted  Tobe  wildly.  "Boys, 
he's  landed  on  somethin'  as  firm  an'  solid  as  the 
South!" 

"  I'm  standing,"  Benton  called,  "  on  the  bot- 
tom of  an  overturned  wagon.  Here  is  a  wheel 
— here  is  another."  There  was  a  pause  while  his 
arms  splashed  in  the  water;  then  he  added:  "  I 
believe  they  are  under  this  wagon !  " 

An  exclamation  of  horror  burst  from  each  of  the 
onlookers.  Benton  knelt  upon  the  bottom  of  the 
wagon,  and  dipped  his  arm  into  the  water.  Pres- 
ently his  voice  came,  cool  and  clear,  across  the 
river. 

"  One  of  the  mules.  It  could  n't  break  loose 
and  it  was  sucked  under  just  far  enough  to  be 
drowned."  He  shifted  his  position  cautiously  and 
felt  on  the  other  side,  but  found  nothing.  "  I  will 
dive,"  he  called.  Clinging  with  bare  feet  to  one 
of  the  wheels,  his  head  and  shoulders  disappeared. 
He  came  to  the  surface  panting.  "  Gentlemen, 
the  wagon  is  resting  upon  the  money  bags.  Mr. 
Sheriff,  you'll  not  have  to  hunt  farther  for  'Bije 
Stork!" 

There  was  an  excited  run  for  the  crossing,  and 
by  the  time  Benton  had  fought  his  way  back  to  the 
stone  pyramids  Hicky  had  gained  the  overturned 
wagon  bed,  the  rope  about  his  waist. 

"  Don't  no  more  of  you-all  come,"  he  shouted. 


PURSUIT  365 

"  The  thing's  sinkin*  fast.  Hold  down  your 
lanterns."  The  rim  of  the  wheel  was  already  out 
of  sight  and  the  water  was  up  to  Hicky's  waist, 
"  I'm  going  to  explore!  "  he  shouted;  "  don't  pull 
me  out  till  I  tell  yous." 

He  dived  downward,  holding  to  the  wagon. 
They  waited  in  breathless  suspense,  while  the  rush 
of  the  river  and  the  hiss  of  the  rain  filled  the 
pause.  The  stones  of  the  crossing  quivered  beneath 
their  feet  as  heavy  driftwood  was  dashed  against 
it  by  the  swirling,  black  waves.  At  last,  Hicky 
stood  up,  and  now  the  water  was  at  his  neck. 
"  Boys,  I'm  ready,"  he  gasped.  "  Pull  me  out!  " 

Their  arms  bent  to  the  rope  and  Hicky  soon 
stood  on  the  crossing.  "  It's  awful !  "  he  panted, 
when  he  had  somewhat  regained  his  breath. 
"  'Bije  could  'a'  got  out;  but  he  grabs  Si,  tryin' 
to  git  him  out,  too.  But  Si,  he  was  under  the 
money  bags  an'  he  could  n't  move  an'  could  n't  be 
raised  up.  'Bije  can't  budge  him,  an'  Si,  knowin' 
it,  tries  to  push  him  away.  He's  got  his  arm  all 
doubled  up,  beatin'  off  his  brother;  but  'Bije  won't 
leave  him.  He  pulls  with  all  that  muscle  of  his'n. 
But  the  money  Si  would  n't  let  go  of  when  a-livin', 
would  n't  let  go  o'  him  when  dyin' !  " 

There  was  an  awful  pause  while  their  eyes  gazed 
upon  the  surface  of  the  river  which  held  its 
tragedy  concealed  from  human  eyes. 

"  After  all's  said,"  Hicky  at  last  remarked, 
"  they  was  some  good  in  'em  both.  Boys,  le's  go 


366  STORK'S   NEST 

git  our  horses.     Ben  kin  break  the  news  to  Mrs. 
Stork;  I  couldn't!" 

When  Benton  had  mounted,  he  looked  back  at 
the  solemn  scene.  Several  men  still  stood  upon 
the  crossing,  holding  up  their  lanterns  as  if  expect- 
ing the  tide  to  pause  in  its  mad  rush  and  tell  them 
of  the  catastrophe.  Others  were  preparing  to 
mount,  or  seeking  their  horses,  silent  and  awed  by 
the  thought  of  Silas  and  'Bije,  so  near  at  hand, 
yet  forever  escaped  from  the  clutch  of  human 
justice.  A  red  glow  from  the  lights  burned  upon 
Grand  River  where  it  frothed  at  the  ford  and  died 
away  to  a  pale  uncertain  glimmer  of  gray  where 
the  blackness  of  night  crouched,  waiting  for  the 
departure  of  man,  that  it  might  triumph.  Over- 
head, a  few  boughs  of  dripping  trees  were  revealed 
ghostly,  fantastic,  as  if  springing  out  of  the  unseen 
sky.  The  faces  of  the  men,  half  in  crimsoned 
light,  half  in  black  shadow,  the  movements  of  their 
limbs,  which  caused  black  shapes  to  spring  and 
dance  along  the  white  causeway,  made  even  the 
human  elements  of  the  weird  scene  appear  gro- 
tesquely unreal.  When  all  were  ready  they  rode 
away  from  the  stress  of  death.  Over  the  quick- 
sands rushed  the  black  river,  and  over  the  river 
brooded  black  night.  Somewhere  in  that  rush  and 
darkness  'Bije  and  Silas  Stork  were  sinking — sink- 
ing— sinking. 


XXIII 
BREAKING    THE    NEWS 

A i  Benton  Cabot  rode  away  from  Grand 
River  he  left  behind  all  hatred,  all  jeal- 
ousy, all  uneasiness,  for  'Bije  was  dead. 
However  great  had  been  his  faults,  however  evil 
his  purposes,  those  faults  and  purposes  were 
buried  with  the  counterfeit  money  in  the  quick- 
sands. Strong  from  his  labors,  his  exposure  to 
the  elements  and  his  very  privations,  he  was  ready 
to  return  to  Blair  City  and  to  take  up  his  former 
life.  He  felt  that  his  coming  to  Northern 
Missouri  had  been  richly  repaid.  Not  only  was 
he  physically  another  man;  there  was  Emmy.  If 
he  had  not  come,  how  different  her  aspirations  and 
her  fate ! 

Now  her  uncle  was  at  hand  to  carry  her  to 
refinement  and  protection.  She  had  no  further 
need  of  Benton;  he  had  fulfilled  his  part  and  must 
vanish  for  the  present  from  her  life.  Why  not? 
There  was  no  need,  now,  to  take  her  under  his 
protection  as  he  had  promised  her  dying  grand- 
father; a  natural  protection  was  provided.  If 
'Bije  had  gone  immediately  to  work  upon  his 
house  in  Gentry  County  instead  of  carrying  false 

367 


368  STORK'S   NEST 

coin  to  St.  Louis  to  dispose  of,  and  if  a  telegram  to 
the  authorities  of  that  city  had  not  frightened  him 
away,  Emma  might  even  now  be  the  widow  of  the 
drowned  fugitive. 

Thus  Benton  mused  as  he  splashed  along  the 
dreary  road,  reasoning  from  many  points  of  view 
that  he  should  be  happy,  yet  feeling  a  strange 
weight  at  his  heart  the  while.  The  fact  that 
Emma  needed  him  no  longer  and  that,  perhaps, 
to-morrow,  they  would  separate,  chilled  every 
happy  thought. 

When  he,  at  last,  reached  Stork's  Nest  he  found 
light  streaming  from  the  open  door.  Mr.  Selton 
met  him  with  eager  questions.  In  a  few  words, 
Benton  told  the  result  of  the  search  for  the  twins. 

"  Nobody  has  gone  to  sleep  on  the  place,"  said 
Mr.  Selton.  "Who  will  break  the  news  to 
Mrs.  Stork?" 

'l  I  thought,  perhaps,  Emma  could  do  it  more 
gently  than  I,"  said  Benton,  hesitating.  "  She  has 
such — a  way,  and  we  men  don't  understand 
women  so  well." 

"Emma  is  right  here,"  said  Mr.  Selton. 

Emma  entered  the  hall  and  accepted  her  mis- 
sion. "  Mrs.  Stork  is  in  the  dining-room,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "  Poor  woman,  you  don't 
know  how  tender  she  can  be ! " 

Mr.  Selton  smiled  somewhat  grimly,  but  turned 
away  to  conceal  his  face.  He  had  his  opinion  of 
these  Grand  River  people,  but  Emma  had  not 


BREAKING    THE   NEWS          369 

mentioned  one  of  them  without  some  commenda- 
tion. He  felt  uneasily  that  she  must  be  like  them ; 
yet  there  was  something  in  the  girl  that  appealed 
to  him  in  spite  of  all  his  conventionality  and 
greater  cultivation. 

"Do  you  leave  us  soon?"  Benton  ventured. 

"  First  train,  sir,"  said  the  St.  Louis  uncle,  dart- 
ing a  keen  glance  at  the  young  man  from  under  his 
heavy  gray  eyebrows. 

Benton  bowed  gloomily.  The  other  hooked  his 
thumb  over  his  watch  fob  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  hall,  as  if  impatient  for  the  first  train 
to  sound  its  call. 

In  the  meantime  Emma  had  entered  the  dining- 
room,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  Mrs.  Stork 
sat  beside  the  table,  the  lamp  turned  down  to 
economize  the  coal  oil.  Her  hair,  tightly  twisted 
as  usual,  trembled  at  the  closing  of  the  door 
and  the  whites  of  her  eyes  shot  inquiringly  at 
Emma. 

"  I  heerd  voices  out  thar,"  she  said,  "  an'  I 
'lowed  thar's  trouble.  I've  got  out  of  Jim  that 
he  did  n't  git  the  cattle  over  the  quicksands.  Poor 
kid,  I  reckon  his  hide  would  n't  make  gloves  when 
'Bije  is  done  with  it!" 

"Mrs.  Stork,"  said  Emma  gently,  "I  am 
bringing  you  dreadful  news."  She  crossed  to  the 
table  and  laid  her  hand  impressively  upon  the 
stooped  shoulder.  "The  wagon  and  the  bags  of 
money  all  went  down  in  the  quicksands.  But 


370  STORK'S   NEST 

wagons  and  bags  can  be  resurrected.  Something 
went  down  there,  Mrs.  Stork,  that  can't  be  resur- 
rected. I  mean,"  added  Emma  thoughtfully, 
"  not  for  some  time  to  come." 

"Emmy,"  cried  Mrs.  Stork,  straightening  her- 
self suddenly,  "  speak  out,  gal,  speak  out !  " 

"  'Bije  is  dead!  "  said  Emma  impressively. 

"I  can't  never  think  it!"  returned  the  other 
below  her  breath. 

"  He  died  in  the  quicksands,  Mrs.  Stork." 

Mrs.  Stork  rose.  "  If  anybody  see  Mm  dead," 
she  said  composedly,  "bring  'im  in!  " 

Emma,  considerably  astonished  by  the  other's 
manner  of  bearing  this  calamity,  called  Benton. 

"Ben,  air  'Bije  dead?"  she  demanded.  "Did 
yous  see  'im?  Can't  thar  be  no  mistake?  " 

"There  is  no  mistake,"  said  Benton  gravely. 
"  He  is  in  the  quicksands,  now,  quite  dead." 

"Then  I  guess  he  did  n't  want  to  live,"  said  the 
other,  "  or  he'd  not  'a'  done  it.  What  next?  " 

"Dear  Mrs.  Stork,"  said  Emma  gently, 
"  'Bije  was  not  alone.  Your  own  man — Si — do 
you  think  you  can  bear  it,  Mrs.  Stork?  " 

"  I  think  I  kin,"  was  the  stoic's  rejoinder. 

"  Si  drowned  with  poor  'Bije !  " 

Mrs.  Stork  looked  at  Benton,  who  bowed  his 
confirmation.  "Well,"  she  said  slowly,  leaning 
forward  and  turning  up  the  lamp,  "  all  his  troubles 
is  over;  any  so  air  mine.  Le's  go  tell  Jim.  Come 
on.  He's  abed  an'  been  awful  low-sperited." 


BREAKING    THE    NEWS          371 

Mrs.  Stork  went  first  and,  as  Emma  and  Benton 
followed,  the  girl  gave  the  young  man  a  solemn 
wink,  as  calling  his  attention  to  the  erect  form 
and  firm  tread  of  the  "  jail-woman."  Mr.  Selton 
respectfully  averted  his  eyes  that  he  might  not 
witness  the  widow's  grief.  "  Come  on !  "  called 
Mrs.  Stork,  not  unlike  a  victorious  captain  leading 
the  final  charge. 

At  the  bedroom  door  they  halted.  "  Who's 
thar?"  came  Jim's  feeble  voice. 

"  The  lady  of  this  house,"  Mrs.  Stork  answered, 
entering. 

Jim,  who  lay  in  bed,  his  head  bandaged,  stared 
wildly  at  the  group.  "  I  thought  'Bije  was 
comin',"  he  said  feebly. 

"Jim,"  said  Mrs.  Stork,  "'Bije  an'  Si  is 
drownded  in  the  quicksands.  They  won't  come  no 
more.  They  are  dead;  drownded." 

Jim  started  up,  staring  at  Benton.  The  young 
man's  attention  had  been  attracted  by  the  con- 
dition of  his  trunk,  showing  that  Silas  had 
examined  everything  in  it  before  leaving  the 
house.  He  had  started  to  lift  an  accusing  arm, 
but  restrained  the  impulse.  Why  cover  the  dead 
with  obloquy?  It  was  enough  that  he  could  con- 
firm Mrs.  Stork's  words:  'Bije  and  Silas  would 
come  no  more. 

"  Jim,"  said  Emma,  standing  at  the  bedside, 
"  does  your  head  hurt  you  so  bad?  " 

"Naw!"   said  Jim,    tearing  off  the  bandage. 


372  STORK'S   NEST 

11  It  was  what  I  was  expectin'  that  hurt.  Will 
yous  jest  turn  your  back  a  minute,  Emmy?  " 

"Sure,"  said  Emma  composedly. 

"  Emma,"  said  Benton  hastily,  as  he  discovered 
Jim  busily  at  work  under  the  bedclothes,  "  I  think 
we  had  better  go  below." 

"  Not  yit,"  cried  Jim,  casting  some  object  upon 
the  floor.  "  I  jest  taken  off  my  electric  belt.  I 
don't  'low  to  wear  it  no  further.  Mrs.  Stork, 
would  yous  mind  to  go  to  that  goods  box  an'  tek' 
them  bottles  in  your  dress  an'  carry  'em  out  o'  this 
room?  Kin  yous  hold  'em  all?  If  not  Ben 
might  make  shift  to  tote  some  of  'em  in  his 
pockets." 

"  I'll  pack  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Stork  cheerfully,  as 
her  hand  clinked  the  bottles  in  her  eagerness. 

"Emmy,"  said  Jim,  his  hair  standing  very 
erect  as  he  sat  in  bed  with  the  dingy  quilt  gathered 
about  his  lean  neck,  "  will  yous  kindly  take  that 
roll  of  almanacs  an'  dispose  'em  whar  I  kin  neither 
see  nor  smell  'em  ag'in?  I've  took  my  last  dose 
of  medicine,  an'  the  moon  kin  raise  an'  set  an'  come 
an'  go  without  me,  for  I  don't  calkerlate  to  look 
into  a  calendar  no  more." 

"Jim,"  said  Mrs.  Stork,  holding  the  bottles  in 
her  skirt  and  waiting  for  Emma  to  get  the  last 
of  the  almanacs,  "  you'll  jest  live  here  with  me, 
lad,  an'  if  yous  marry  Liza  Mary,  both  on  yous 
kin  hev'  as  much  of  this  house  as  yous  kin  fill. 
Ben,  yous  kin  stay  too;  an'  Emmy." 


BREAKING    THE   NEWS          373 

Emma  and  Benton  looked  at  each  other  with 
a  little  mournful  smile,  but  Jim  chuckled : 

"  Liza  Mary's  ready  when  I  am,"  he  announced. 

"  Now,  I'm  goin'  to  git  hot  supper,  late  though 
it  be,"  said  Mrs.  Stork,  departing. 

"  Then  yous  go  'long,  Emmy,"  said  Jim,  "  for 
up  I  must  git !  " 

Emma  walked  composedly  toward  the  door 
and  paused  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  Benton's  Bible. 
The  color  crept  to  her  cheeks.  She  took  up  the 
book,  and  they  entered  the  hall  where  Mrs.  Stork 
had  paused  holding  the  lamp. 

"All  here,"  said  Emma,  fluttering  the  leaves 
and  finding  some  dried  flowers. 

"  Yes,"  said  Benton,  helping  her  hold  the  book, 
"  and  here  is  the  one  I  put  for  you,  and  you  did  n't 
take  it,  Emmy! " 

"Did  you  feel  very  bad  about  that,  Ben?" 
asked  Emma  gently. 

"  I  was  very  unhappy." 

"  I  felt  bad  not  to  take  it,"  said  Emma.  "  I 
will  now."  She  took  the  faded  flower  and  placed 
it  in  her  bosom.  "Now  it  is  with  my  catalpa 
leaf." 

"  Come  on,  or  I'll  leave  you-all!  "  called  Mrs. 
Stork,  from  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

It  was  strange  how  their  hands  could  meet  and 
clasp  and  cling  to  each  other  with  that  book  in  the 
way,  but  so,  in  some  way,  somehow,  it  hap- 
pened. 


374  STORK'S   NEST 

"  I'm  goin' !  "  the  "  lady  of  the  house  "  warned 
them. 

:<  Just  go  ahead, "  rejoined  Emma,  gurgling 
with  sudden  laughter. 

"  Emma ! "  came  the  measured  voice  of  Mr. 
Selton. 

"  La !  "  whispered  Emma,  "  I  forgot  I  was  cut 
glass!  "  Then  aloud,  "  I'm  coming,  dear  uncle." 

u  Oh,  Emmy!"  murmured  Benton,  his  voice 
trembling  with  sudden  passion,  "  Emmy — I  can't 
tell  you  how  much  you  are  to  me — not  yet !  But 
your  uncle — I  know  he  is  here  for  your  good. 
But  not  for  mine,  dear,  not  for  mine,"  he  added 
wistfully. 

"  Yes  he  is,"  returned  Emma  decidedly.  "  I'll 
think  just  as  much  of  you,  Ben,  when  I'm  a 
Person." 

"  Emma,  how  much  do  you  think  of  me 
now?" 

"  I  know  how  you  risked  your  life  to-night  for 
me,  Ben ;  but  that  is  n't  anything.  It  did  n't  make 
me  think  more  of  you.  For  already  I  thought  just 
as  much  of  you  as  I  could.  Why !  Ben,  if  you  were 
my  own,  own  brother,  I  could  n't  love  you  any 
more!" 

"You  little  innocent  angel,"  cried  Benton, 
clasping  her  in  his  arms. 

44  Ben,"  called  Jim,  cautiously  poking  his  head 
around  the  corner  of  the  hall,  "  I  forgot  to  tell 
yous  I  heerd  'em  say  your  minin'  shurs  air  wuth 


BREAKING    THE    NEWS          375 

six  hundred  and  seventy  thousand  dollars.     It  was 
the  comp'ny's  letter  to  you  that  Si  burnt." 

"Six  hundred  and  seventy  thousand  dollars!  " 
echoed  Emma,  in  dismay,  shrinking  away  from  his 
detaining  arm.  "  Oh,  Ben,  you  are  rich !  " 

"  So  I  am,  little  sunbeam,"  murmured  Benton, 
"  but  it  is  what  you  just  said  that  makes  me  so." 

The  light  had  vanished  from  the  upper  hall,  and 
if  Jim  Whitlicks  still  stood  half  dressed  at  its  angle 
near  the  Snake  Room,  he  could  not  see  what  took 
place  above  the  Bible. 

"Emma!"  called  Mr.  Selton,  this  time  with 
dawning  displeasure  in  his  tone,  "  you  must  come 
down,  niece,  from  that  dark  hall." 

As  she  tripped  down  the  stairs  there  was  a  rosy 
color  in  her  cheeks  which,  perhaps,  she  did  not 
wish  to  show  her  uncle,  for  she  turned  and  looked 
up  at  Benton,  who  was  slowly  following. 

"  Ben,"  she  said,  her  voice  quivering,  "  do  you 
know  that  hall  reminded  me  of  catalpa  trees ! " 

"That  hall,"  said  Mr.  Selton,  "reminded  you 
of  what,  Emma?" 

"  Oh!  you  darling  uncle,"  cried  Emma,  rushing 
upon  him  and  giving  him  an  embrace  which  melted 
him  like  wax;  "  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  Person 
just  as  quick  as  you  can !  " 


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